


The cursed House of Black

by Licey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Childhood, Dark Hermione Granger, F/M, Family Bonding, Hermione Granger is a Member of the House of Black, Insanity, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Minor Canonical Character(s), Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Slytherin Hermione Granger, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Time Travel, Time Travelling Hermione Granger, Timeline What Timeline, Underage Drinking, Young Death Eaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Licey/pseuds/Licey
Summary: Hermione Jean Granger had died. An awful and violent affair, nothing as the early and peaceful passing of Harry James Potter. Yet, Hermione was alive. She was called Bellatrix and had the attention span of a goldfish.How poetic.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 218
Kudos: 401





	1. Bellatrix is born

There were shades of colors surrounding her. Shadows of feelings and magic on her tongue, Hermione Jane Granger screamed when placed on skinny arms. She could feel the damp darkness surround herself. She called her power to her fingertips and the world turned black.

...

She saw Molly Weasley with bright red hair slashing her wand and Hermione fell to the ground.

...

“She is going to die.” Druella’s blue eyes were dull and her tone flat. She wasn’t arguing or pleading anymore. She was stating a fact. Cygnus almost wished for the screams and curses back. He wasn’t sure what was worse.

Touching her oily hair, he sat beside his wife on the couch. Little Bellatrix was immersed in a bundle of blankets on her lap. Dark lashes touching the pale skin. Her hair as black as his. He knew her eyes to be black even if he had never seen it. His firstborn. His little princess. He didn’t cry when the medwitches gave him the news that they couldn’t help her. He wouldn’t then, even if his throat grew tight and his jaw hurt from keeping it shut.

He was disappointed at first when the Medwitch announced it was a girl, however, when he felt his magic being pulled and pulled and saw energy cracking around the baby, he was happy. A powerful child, at least. More powerful than he had ever heard about. And then his daughter started screaming. He could still feel his head pounding and the wailing, the leaking eyes and shaking hands of his always so composed wife.

They put their Bellatrix in a forced sleep and told them her magic was abnormal. Strong, oh yes strong. And way too developed for her own body, thank you very much. And what he had thought a blessing turned to be the reason his daughter wouldn’t be able to wake up. Her magic was too intense and when forced in her body it just collapsed. She was in pain, they told him. Possible brain damage if they hadn’t put her in a coma. And then Druella’s own magic started cracking. Drunes, seals, there should be something. When they explained any kind of interference would probably rip her magical core or damage it irreversible Druella only said “Do it.”

They didn’t. Cygnus couldn’t let them turn their baby in a squib. Death was preferable. Druella was a Rosier, she should realize it too. She should know that he would be forced to give any non-magical children away. For Merlin’s sake, she was a pureblood. And then his wife just looked at him. She knew he had the authority over the decision, so she did the only thing that she could do. She stared at him with eyes as cold as when they had first met. Calculating. Even with mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks, and weak from labor, she was still able to make him feel small. Not inferior, because he was a Black and he would never be less than a woman. But fragile. Because while his family would always be his priority, and Druella was his and his to protect and to love, she was a Black after marrying him and should have the same ideals. But when he prioritized his family - he and his wife - well-being as an ancient family, she would always choose her children. No matter if it would drag their name to the dirt, she would keep her daughter.

Both of them knew he wouldn’t allow it, so when she looked at him, he saw a stranger. Before being his wife, she was a mother and he had never felt more alone.

Cygnus took a deep breath “You don’t know that.” She scrunched her nose in distaste, her eyes never leaving Bellatrix. She hated it when he was condescending. “Three weeks without any kind of nutrition or intensive care and she is still breathing. Her magic must be taking care of her.” Now that is not tearing her apart was left unsaid.

“I just wish she would wake up or else.” I just wish she would live or die already. He laced his fingers around hers and pretended to not notice when she tensed at his touch. Kissing her temple, he stood up and left the room.

... 

When Bellatrix moved for the first time Druella’s magic sparked so hard that Cygnus flew from the kitchen to the room in a few heartbeats. And there she was, Druella, sitting on the chair she had claimed as hers and dressed as elegant as she always did, shaking. Her eyes were wide. In the crib, Bellatrix was moving, head tumbling in the pillow and chubby fingers flexing. They were smiling when they found each other gaze, his lips so stretched that his cheeks hurt. She would live, they knew then. Druella touched the baby’s face, laughing when their daughter moved her mouth to follow the trembling fingers.

Watching his wife interact with their daughter, Cygnus felt broken. Guilt and relief making him dizzy, he also knew their matrimonial bond had been irrevocably hurt. He had been right in keeping Bellatrix in a coma instead of meddling with her magical core, yet the sight of them made him unworthy. He swallowed hard and mumbled some excuse before going away.

...

Alphard filled their glasses with Ogden’s old Firewhisky. Cygnus stared at the amber liquid in silence before taking a sip. He tasted the cedar on his tongue with eyes closed. He wasn’t embarrassed per se, it was just not common for him to appear in his brother’s house. Not with heavy bags under his eyes and disheveled hair. He tried to tide his clothes before just giving up and looking up at his older brother.

“So, is this a celebration or someone died?” Dark lashes blinked with innocence. If Cygnus was a lesser man, he would have groaned. He resigned himself to sigh.

“Bellatrix moved.” Alphard blinked again.

“Wasn’t she supposed to do it?” He sipped his cup.

“She was in a magical coma since birth. Her body wasn’t able to hold her magic without tearing itself apart.” His brother had his head tipped back and jaw slack. “I am sorry, Cygnus. I didn’t know.” He just dismissed the sympathies with a wave of his hand. “She was supposed to die and then her magic kept her alive and she still was bound to exhaust herself and just die but no, she moved today.”

Alphard was silent for a second “So, we are celebrating?” “Yes, your fool. We are celebrating the daughter I had condemned to die instead of turning her in a squib survived.”

And after a few moments looking at his brother, Alphard nodded in realization. “You had a choice and it wasn’t her. I can imagine Druella’s contempt at looking at you now.”

This time Cygnus did groan “Toujours pur” he didn’t need to look at Alphard to know his brother’s face was twisted with disgust “I would need to send her away, she would be as good as dead. Don’t be a hypocrite with me, Alphard, not with me. Where would be without your magic? We both know you would rather beg for your death than live without it.”

“I would rather die, yes. But muggles are born without a single drop of magic and they live. You know, favoring Bellatrix dead rather than living, living, as a muggle is telling.” There was no pity in his bottomless black eyes. Cygnus bent forward, face contorting in a sneer. Dark magic waved around him, danger on his fingertips.

“But, yes, Alphard, how could I forget of your loving opinion about muggles. But we are Blacks, even if you do pretend you aren’t. Family first, dearest brother, family first.” He finished his glass in a gulp and stood up. Alphard followed his motions, although his eyes were sad. Cygnus felt like screaming at the pity he saw on his face.

“Reputation first, brother. Your family was in second when you choose your ideals over your daughter’s life. I do believe it is a great thing she lived to haunt you. We know you are quite good at burying the dead.” And Cygnus was upon him, wand in hand.

Nonverbal curses flew direct to a thin shield built only by instinct as Alphard bent to the side to avoid his brother’s form. “Confrigo!” And energy exploded from Cygnus wand. “Alarte Ascendare!” The older wizard sent the Firewhisky bottle to the air, exploding against the blasting curse Cygnus had casted. Both brothers conjured quick protections against the flying shreds of glass. “I can’t believe you just casted a Confrigo in my living room.”

Cygnus licked his lips “It was underpowered.” “It was a Confrigo.” Alphard threw his head back and let a rough laugh out. “Oh, baby brother, is Confrigo your best now?” Cygnus' hands were sweaty, and dread filled his insides, throat dry. Alphard didn’t appreciate the Confrigo. And Merlin knew how his brother could turn serious for the silliest reasons in a blink of eyes.

Stepping into the offensive, Alphard drew his hand in a circular motion and shoot a purple mist “Calidum Caput” – head boiling curse, he knew that one - Cygnus dived to the left “Crebrumque suspirium” – maybe something about breathing? - he felt the wind and dropped to the floor, rolling forward and sending his own spell in a thin dark line “Pugione!” Alphard raised a nonverbal silver shield and sent the curse back at this brother. Barely dodging, Cygnus heard the conjured dagger penetrating the wall. When he rose to his feet, Alphard was smiling at him. “Finally, a dark spell. For a second I thought I was dueling against a Hufflepuff.”

Cygnus snorted and the moment was gone. His older brother was fast, yes, faster than most of them, and although his despicable love for mudbloods was substantial, so was his passion for the dark arts.

They were Blacks and so they had a predisposition to the dark arts, but his brother was different. He was natural, forbidden curses and forgotten spells always on his lips. While Walburga forced the dark magic into submission when casting and Cygnus fought with his own power to follow the same path, Alphard breathed it. His magic was dark from birth.

He knew it was a losing fight from the beginning but when his brother dropped the smile and his magic exploded around him in spasms of energy, Cygnus felt fear.

There were no spells casted or wand movements or words spoken, but Cygnus could feel his brother’s power resting around him, touching, wrapping, and breathing him in. The anticipation heavy on his tongue, the threat making his head dizzy. Then it fell upon him. Smashing and absorbing and licking, the foreign energy running on his veins as he fought to stay on his feet. A shiver ran his body

Alphard was in front of him, he knew even with eyes closed. Long fingers holding his jaw and tilting his head up. “You are a coward, Cygnus, and so am I. Maybe it runs in our pure and ancient blood, huh?” A barking laugh, he opened his eyes and the tired lines on his brother’s face remembered him of Arcturus. He felt like crying. “But you have a daughter now. You can’t afford to hide anymore, can you? Will you?”

With trembling steps, Cygnus retreat was stopped by a grasping hand on his elbow “And, little brother? I want to meet my niece and so does Walburga. Merlin knows she is not as patient as most of us are.” With a laugh, he dismissed the white on Cygnus' face “Oh, I don’t envy your position, but I certainly don’t pity you either. All of my sympathies are reserved for poor Orion who has to live with our darling sister.”

...

Cygnus loved Alphard, make no mistake, but how he also hated his big brother. They had many relatives, some rule biding, and others touched by madness and a few completely crazed. The Black’s curse punished their sanity, it was said. Alphard was a touched one, he knew from the first time he saw his brother lose his temper. And he couldn’t be surer of it. He considered himself an authority in the subject because, from all of their kin, Alphard had chosen him to be it.

As purebloods, they learn from day one how to wear masks and manipulate opinions and yet he believed Alphard to be the one who turned maneuvering people an art. They all saw his brother as an odd one. Not particularly powerful, not extremely charming, and never overbearing smart. Eccentric and disinterested, at most. A bit touched, of course.

But Alphard chose Cygnus and showed him his truth. While he followed traditions, respected rules, and was proud of his reputation, his older brother was chaos. He hated their moral lines, their hypocrisy, their pride. He spat on everything Cygnus loved and protected. And yet when the world was fuzzy, Alphard was the only mirror he would look when searching for the truth.

Alphard drank, associated with mudbloods, fucked men and women alike, laughed about pureblood etiquette, and was one of the most powerful dark wizards Cygnus knew. But oh, he was just an odd one for all of them. And him, Cygnus, was chosen to know the truth, to live between the mocking mirror and the embellish noble world. Toujours pur. He hated his brother. Yet, he was his family, as Druella, Bellatrix, and the many Blacks. Yet, he was more.

...

In home, he was welcomed with an admonishing look from Druella. Cygnus held his head high and went to the bathroom. He needed a bath to wash away the dust and sweat of his skin. And it would probably be nice to not smell like alcohol next to his upset wife. He smiled to himself. Cold shoulders and nose up, she was his. He should be more comprehensive with her, give her some time to think. They were young. Twenty years was not enough to know how dirt the blood could run. She would come around, he was sure.

...

“Tell me, dearest, how is maternity treating you?” Walburga sipped her tea looking at her sister in law’s demure eyes “They say it changes a woman, but I see you still carry your pretty round cheeks like a teenage girl. A little boy could give you a more mature air, perhaps” pleasure flicked in her as red roused on the younger woman face. The father would always root for a son.

“I may not carry visible marks of motherhood, but I can assure you that it is, as you say, life-changing.” Druella smiled, eyes casted down. “Are you and Orion planning on trying any soon?”

“Oh, not so soon. Orion is still preparing to step over Arcturus position in the Wizengamot and as much as I admire your enthusiasm to start the next generation, I would rather wait for me and my husband to get a bit older before adding crying babies in the equation. And don’t look at me like that, dear, you know very well how I think it was foolish of you and my silly brother to even get married after graduation.”

“I was under the impression you married Orion a few years after Hogwarts. Wasn’t it six years ago? I am sorry, Walburga. Having a baby makes one’s head confused, at least about details.” Druella clicked her long nails twice against the porcelain before raising her shin and staring straight at Walburga’s pitch-black eyes.

Cute. Her sister in law trying to play with words and display authority could even be endearing. However, it was common knowledge that her marriage with the heir was arranged and despite sharing blood, name, and vows, they did not share affection. More so, it was proof of her dedication to her family and honor. But if Druella, with her blond hair and baby blue eyes, wanted to discuss Black affairs with Walburga herself, she would not cower. “We waited two years after Hogwarts before marrying, yes, while you waited two years to provide the House children. I can only appreciate your efforts in building the future.” She let her eyes wander over the room before turning back to the young woman. “I can’t hear the cry of a child, however. She is a quiet one, huh? How old is she now, six months?”

Druella sipped her tea and smiled. “Bellatrix is going to be six months in five days.” Another sip “However, you really should reconsider having a baby, Walburga. You do know how much I and a lot of Slytherins girls mirrored ourselves in you. I can see a bright future shaped under your hands.”

Walburga shook her hand to dismiss the flattery. Patience wasn’t her greatest characteristic and both of them knew the reason behind her spontaneous bordering rude visit. “My firstborn son may be the heir but is your little girl who will be the example all of our children will follow. I was expecting Cygnus to call me over and present her to me, however, both of you seem to be quite enamored with suspense. Should I wait until her sixth birthday to meet Bellatrix with the rest of the House?”

Druella wetted her lips and put a spoon of sugar on her tea, blinking fast. Under Walburga’s watchful eyes, her shoulders tensed, and fingers flexed on thin air, grasping for time, searching for an excuse in her lady-like manner. “Is my niece a squib?”

“No. She is not.” Druella said.

“Bring her to me, then.” Annoyance flickering inside her, Walburga held Druella’s gaze. She refused to meet her niece in a traditional presentation party. No, her sons – when she decided to have them – could end up married to Cygnus’ child. It was her duty to take care of her House, as she was Orion's wife.

Druella stood up without a word and walked to the stairs. Walburga would have preferred to follow her, but she knew her visit was already heaving on the etiquette. Yet, she was also pleased her sister in law would bring the baby herself instead of asking for a house-elf to do it. Awful but dedicated creatures shouldn’t be trusted with their future.

She got up from her seat in a fluid movement and opened her arms. Druella had her jaw steeled and head high, even if she held the small bundle with extreme caution. She could see the protective stance seeping into the ladylike posture. Smiling, Walburga took the small baby and adjusted her against her own chest.

Sitting down, the baby rested on her lap, head nested by her arm. With her free hand, she skimmed the pale skin of the sleeping newborn. Bellatrix. She tried the name aloud twice, testing it. Such a strong name to give to such a small thing. Touching her cheek once again, she tried to coax her into waking up.

Nothing.

Black hair, black eyebrows, and black eyelashes. Round face and pale skin. Her niece refused to wake. She watched Druella fidget, body tense as if ready to jump in and take the baby away. “She sleeps a lot.”

“She has a very strong magical core. The medwitches said sleeping is good to her.”

Walburga was the oldest daughter of Pollux Black and Irma Black née Crabbe. She was six when her youngest sibling was born, so she was well aware babies sleep a lot. But they also would cry. Watching Bella – such a strong name as Bellatrix wasn’t fitting of that fragile thing, not yet - she tried to induce some magic of her own into the girl.

Alphard, the middle brother could control his magic like a second limb of his. Cygnus, the youngest, could sense it. Walburga could do neither with excellence, but persistence had taught her to poke people with her magic and to be aware enough to catch one or another commotion with her sensitivity alone. 

Ignoring the questioning look on Druella’s face, she held the baby’s head a bit higher, while cradling her chin so their eyes could meet if only Bella opened hers. Concentrating for a few seconds, she felt her magic, nervous energy clawing her skin and buzzing inside her veins. She focused on it, her throat started tightening and a distant pounding inside her head, until she could taste it. Her magic centered in the air she breathed and in each of her every thought.

Careful to not dismiss the power she had raised, she allowed it to feel her niece, touching, tasting magic so dense and so dark that she felt herself out of breath. Mouth open and eyes burning with the effort, she allowed it to mingle with her own core before pushing it back at Bella.

The baby opened her eyes and screamed. There was blood under the witch’s nose, and the magic lashed out against her, forcing her to back away. Walburga laughed.

...

Fingers holding tight the sink, she tried to keep herself from crying. The house was silent, as it usually was. Bella, her baby, was sleeping and Cygnus, her husband, was in the Ministry. They had one house-elf, Niny, who was busy in the kitchen. No one would see her breaking down, but Druella was a Rosier. More than a Black nowadays, she found herself clinging into old lessons and well-used memories to ground herself.

Druella was twenty-one and she never felt so lost. She remembered being seventeen and full of ambition.

The first time she noticed she was alone was right after her marriage. Cygnus, the man she fought for, was laying on his side, face relaxed in sleep. Yet, she was unquiet. Barefoot in an unfamiliar house, she tiptoed as a child. Empty rooms and luxury, and it was her, her life, her energy that would build a home in there. She would be a mother, one of the leaderships under that roof. No more orders or comforting hugs. She would be the one to provide it.

She felt free and then, in a silent house, she felt alone. Her man was just that, a man. He held no answers and he was so achingly handsome that sometimes she forgot he was her age, and just as lost. Druella was a child playing the part of a wife. She cried, then.

When she discovered she was pregnant for the first time, she was static. Bored out of her mind as a housewife, she boasted her round belly in every tea party she could. When Bellatrix was born and she screamed, not as all newborns do, but as a dying animal, Druella broke. Her Cygnus, then, left her too. With a comatose baby, she watched as the man she loved chose his name over their family.

But her daughter was alive. She would spend more and more time awake, and since Walburga had meddled with it, her magic would interact with theirs. She found it mildly disturbing, but she saw Cygnus open eyes in alarm to spikes in Bella’s power. He was sensitive to it and most things involving the baby too.

Cygnus held Bellatrix from time to time, but he was utterly uncomfortably. She remembered her father spinning her around, chasing her through the halls, and smiling as if she was the center of his universe. So, under her eyes, Cygnus was no father and she was a lone parent. But she would never say that.

Bellatrix cried a lot when she was awake, and it was hard to bond with a sleeping baby. She muttered herself to hope that Cygnus would do better with another child, a better child. Maybe a son.

Her bed was his, and she would never deny him his husband’s rights. She wasn’t surprised when she realized she was pregnant. Bellatrix was almost one year and a half. She should want another baby, another child, and yet Druella felt herself breaking down again.

She couldn’t do it again. Not alone.

But she was a wife and she was a mother. Biting her hand to muffle a sob, she knew she had no choice.

...

Hermione Jean Granger had died. An awful and violent affair, nothing as the early and peaceful passing of Harry James Potter. Yet, Hermione was alive. She was called Bellatrix and had the attention span of a goldfish.

How poetic.

The thing about being an adult inside a one-year-old was that, well, the brain and the body remained of an infant. Colors and movement called her attention, normal thinking provoked migraines and she was always sleepy. She heard medwitches telling her mother of how much of a miracle she was and if the cost was only longer time in bed, then she should thank Merlin for it.

Hermione felt more like complaining than thanking anyone at this point, but she was aware her memories were fragmented. She knew things but had only lost recollections of her late years. She knew it was bad, but not how bad. Maybe she could use this as an opportunity to change the world’s fate.

Her developed level of magic had been noticed and it took a toll of her body. But Hermione knew things could be worse. Despite not being able to think, she had more magic than in her previous life. And she could taste it. It was hers. It was Bellatrix’s. And not the young one. Somehow, Hermione died and traveled back in time to be reborn as Bellatrix Black, and she didn’t come alone. The older Bellatrix was present, but not conscient. Her magic and her instability, yes, and Hermione felt like screaming.

But mostly, she slept.


	2. Mother and daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Druella faces maternity while Hermione fights against her limitations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who took a few minutes to comment on the last chapter. About this story, I plan to disregard most of the canon timeline. To be honest, the canon timeline disregards itself. No one can convince me about Walburga and Orion having Sirius when he was thirteen, or about Bellatrix and Snape being part of the same gang in Hogwarts when they supposedly have nine years of difference. Enough of ranting, hope you enjoy the chapter!

Sitting on a chair close to the crib, she was aware that Bellatrix was different. Druella had almost no previous experience with toddlers, being herself the youngest child of the family, yet she knew her firstborn was out the norm. Despite sleeping a lot and having an extraordinary magical core, she was quiet. Eyes with overbearing intensity, she would follow Druella's movements without muttering a word. If she was hungry, if she was tired, the mother would _know_.

She asked Cygnus one night, staring at the ceiling as her husband caressed her hair if powerful babies could project thoughts. He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. She was reminded of the time when the same action was endearing, and her heart would skip a beat.

Lying half-naked on the bed she shared with him, she couldn’t avoid thinking of it as empty. His touch, his love, him, it was all purposeless as she walked unseen inside a silent house. What was she - what was her daughter - to the mighty Cygnus Black, beside tokens of his status? He got the pretty girl, a child and another to be born, a good job in the ministry, and a solid family behind him. The idea that he saw the wife on her but not Druella herself scared her out of her mind.

But she still had problems and she still needed solutions, even if this was out of character of a woman married into the noble and most ancient house of Black. Walburga didn’t seem submissive toward Orion, though. In Hogwarts, as an older student, she was often patronizing with her younger siblings and her second cousin – heir of the house and fiancé. 

But Druella couldn’t afford to go against her husband, not yet, not when she still hoped her marriage would be made of love and not only duty. Staring at her sleeping daughter, she wondered how much longer her childish dreams would last.

Peaceful and quiet, she was never as fragile as when she was sleeping. But when awake, her magic was anything but accidental, more like an extra limb than an uncontrollable force. She had never heard about children presenting magic this early and this intensely, however, there was Bellatrix, walking around the house with her small steps and knowing eyes. And there was herself, a powerless witness of her withdrawal daughter and careless husband.

Druella had never delved in the dark arts as others in her house, and she found herself wishing she did. The Rosier estate had a huge library with all kinds of books, but nothing near the ancient collection the Blacks had, full of forbidden tomes. Yet, Cygnus' knowledge in dark arts was similar to hers. 

Druella needed someone who knew the magic and its many roots. They had some - dedicated and passionate towards it - dark wizards between the many members of the family, but she still was a Rosier, and Walburga’s last visit branded the lesson inside her. She was the mother of a Black, yes, but she had no authority over her daughter. Her sister-in-law imbalanced her daughter’s magic and her husband just shrugged the whole incident. 

Stress wearing her mind out, she watched her fears growing as the shadow of a tree with long and ever-reaching branches on the butterfly wallpaper of the nursery. All of them, sharp and greedy, surrounding Druella and her children. Blinking her irrational dread away, she was filled with the rational ones. Cygnus could snap and send her baby to be raised by his sister and what she could do, besides cry and beg? 

She needed to be wise about it. She chose her husband for a reason. They were in love and he had worshipped the floor she walked on. Sadly, the marriage broke some of her influence over him – maybe seeing her every day or knowing she was his made him careless – but Druella was the same ruthless lady she was raised to be. And she had a daughter and therefore couldn’t afford to be dumb.

Bellatrix, at almost two years old, was a prodigy. Floating toys, color-changing walls, static hair, and too attentive eyes, she was more than too intelligent or too powerful for her age. But as it was, she refused to talk. Not a damn word for the caring mother or the barely present father. No, her first word and full sentence – that Druella heard, at least – was for Niny, the house-elf.

“You shouldn’t apologize for anything, Ninny.” The so small toddler, with black locks of hair touching her bony shoulder, had a high-pitched voice. Words flowing without any stutter, yet Bellatrix spoke slowly and with ultimate care “And I forbid you from punishing yourself again.”

Druella had gasped and the house-elf flickered away. Her baby, her daughter, then turned to her. Face placid and gaze so heavy it felt unearthly in a small child, Bellatrix nodded at her and said “Mother” before wobbling out of the playroom in her tiny body and grave eyes. 

Playroom she barely played with. Her magic and the cursed house-elf, they seemed to be the only objects of interest for her daughter.

Druella felt despair while Cygnus beamed when their child called him “Father” for the first time. He laughed his way out of any serious conversation she tried to have with him about Bellatrix. But she knew he was somewhat aware the toddler was different because he never tried to present her to the family. She was powerful, more than they could dream of, yet he willingly kept her hidden.

But the truth was that a mother could deal with the oddness of a child. She could deal with the silence, the indifference, the eccentric behavior, and even get used to it. But no mother could ever accept the suffering of her children. 

Bellatrix was one year old when she had her first crisis. Face red and purple blotches blooming on her cheeks, the baby howled. They called the medwitches and no one knew what was wrong. They refused to put her daughter into a coma as the unknown cause of her pain – if it was pain – overcame what they did know about her situation.

So Druella held the screaming child in her arms with a spine of steel, nursing, and caressing at the best of her capacities. Only after the girl fell asleep, she allowed herself to weep. Cygnus had a hand on her shoulder, but no word was said as no comfort could be offered.

With age, the crises grew worst. Her husband would leave to his brother’s and Druella would sit on the floor, back touching the crib and head tilted up. She would search the cracks on the ceiling and shades on the wall. Bellatrix would scream, then, tiny fists shaking, and her magic would lash out in an almost acid wave. But Druella stayed. 

When her daughter was done, she would wipe her face with a soft cloth and pick her up, cradling Bellatrix against her chest. A soft peck against the sweaty forehead, Druella would close her eyes and lull her to sleep. Sometimes she would feel the tiny arms reaching out and holding her just as tight. 

Dirty and alone – always alone – Druella felt for the first time as a mother when Bellatrix reached for her even asleep. The notion was oddly empowering. She had an anchor, for better and for the worst, one she would gladly die for, and yet she felt free. There were no boundaries she wouldn’t cross, and with her sweaty daughter on her arms and the other kicking inside her belly, she was unbreakable.

Looking down at her child while keeping a hand on her baby bump, she made her decision.

She wouldn’t ask her husband or any of his family for help. She briefly wondered what Walburga would think about her little girl. Would she be impressed? Or afraid? Druella didn’t want to break the thin thread of trust she had with Cygnus and reaching out for his siblings could be overstepping limits. Worst, there could be a reason behind his reluctance to allow Bellatrix out of the house.

But he was busy working and she needed answers. Walking into the office, Druella flicked her wand and got parchment and ink. _Hello, brother,_ she wrote with a twirl of the quill. 

…

Dragonskin boots and dark green robes embroidered with gold on the edges, he had larger shoulders than the last time she saw him. Taller too. A charming smile at the corner of his lips and smalls dimples appeared on his cheek making him look younger and mischievous. She smiled back and forgot any etiquette for a second, throwing her arms around his neck and laughing when he lifted her easily.

“Sister of mine, I was sure you had forgotten about this humble family.” He spoke with the head still buried on her shoulder. She tapped his back to make him put her down.

“Never, Fer.” She waked him into the three stories high house.

Sitting in front of him in the more private living room, tea between them, she couldn’t take her eyes away from him. Her older brother – five years older, to be exact – had always been beautiful. With his blonde hair brushed away from his forehead and a well-groomed mustache over his full mouth, he carried himself with a more mature air. Still, she could see the boyish gleam on an out of place lock of hair, or in the heavy-lidded eyes so similar to her own in shape and color.

“Tell me, love, are you planning to fill this house with running brats?” He winked with a playful smile at her belly.

“Tell me, Fernand, are you planning on an arranged marriage?” She winked at his ringless fingers. He gasped in mock offense.

Almost twenty-seven years old, her brother and heir of the house had suffered a lot of harassment from their parents and yet refused to marry early, like Druella, or by arrangement. Now, though, she wondered if he planned to marry at all. Their family was small, and it was expected of Fernand to make sure the name didn’t die on them.

“Fair, little sister, fair.” He sipped the tea and she saw the traces of a grimace on his face. 

“Isn’t the tea at your taste?” She was ready to call Ninny when he raised a dismissive hand and shook his head.

“The tea is great, Druella, but it reminded me of that long and insufferable tea parties you used to drag me.” She chucked with the memory. He had been the dream of half of her childhood friends. Playful but with a dark edge, they thought him mysterious.

“You loved the attention, though. A ladies’ man since always, aren’t you?” She laughed at his expense. He did hate the tea parties but had loved Druella too much to deny her wishes.

“And you loved the tea and the party. Even the company, the empty head gossipers.” He looked at his hands for a moment before raising his head and looking straight at her eyes “I know you enjoyed playing politics when you were eight and later on, you kept the court and lady-in-waiting scheme in your Hogwarts years.”

“You flatter me.” She blushed prettily under his contemplative blue eyes.

He shook his head, disappointment in his tone making Druella freeze “Not my intention, love. I just… I can still picture you surrounded by silly girls talking about even more futile subjects, destroying and rebuilding hierarchy at whims. You were their damn queen” His jaw was tensed, then, his eyes avoiding hers “And now, look at you, locked away. Not even a trophy wife…”

“Don’t.” Eyes hard, she hated how he kept staring at the rug instead of looking at her. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her if he saw it in her face. 

“A breeding mare to a stuck-up Black” Fernand spat the words and sneered; eyes full of disgust. Druella felt with each second the growing regret at sending him that letter. He was offending her husband and offending her and offending their family. Steeling herself, she didn’t allow herself to think about the accusation, lest she agreed with it. There was no space for hurt, then, only rage, her rage. Cold and cruel, she smiled at him.

“All of this because the Blacks didn’t bow to your mudblood _friend_ in Hogwarts?” She huffed and spoke in a mocking whisper “Purebloods usually don’t associate with dirt, you should know better, brother. Less even with one who suffers from delusions of self-importance.” 

For one instant too long, she thought he would curse her, despite her advanced pregnancy and blood they shared. His face was blank and his body tense as a cord ready to snap. But his eyes, icy blue like hers, filled with more rage than she could dream, were distant. He wasn’t glaring at her as a brother or an enemy, but as if she was an inset that he was dying to step on. Her gaze flickered to his flexing hand and she knew his wand would slip from the wand holster strapped on his forearm in any second. 

He was a brilliant duelist, always have been, so she readied herself to call Ninny or raise the protective alarm connected in all the Blacks’ propriety. 

But as a shadow on the corner of her eyes, drowning her in dread only to disappear in the next second, Fernand broke in a fit of laughter. 

Controlling her heartbeat and shaking hands, she fought to keep her pureblood mask in place. She was a Black and she wouldn’t be scared in her own home. Not by fleeting emotions she painted on others’ eyes or her paranoia. 

“Good to see the fire still burns in you, love.” He smiled fondly at her “Never take without giving back, right? Was father who told us that once?” at her silence, he added on “But I still insist on the tea parties. You have one child and another in the way, but not dead. I never thought one day I would be more social than you… It’s somewhat disturbing, mostly when you are all thin arms, sunken eyes, and huge belly.”

“You know exactly how to flatter a lady, don’t you? No surprise you are still a bachelor.” He chuckled and she fought against the urge to analyze his face and behavior. On guard, she smiled back “Bellatrix is a demanding child and I am to give birth soon. A tiring period, with you may. When you take a wife, you will understand it better, Fer.” 

“Can I meet her or is she hiding from social contact like you?” She rolled her eyes at his words before calling Ninny to take the tea away. He stood up and offered a hand to her. She smiled and he helped her stand up. Her belly was swollen, bigger than with her firstborn, but the baby was peaceful where Bellatrix kicked and hurt her insides. 

“Bellatrix doesn’t speak much; I must warn you.” She guided him to the nursery. With each step, her heartbeat quickened. She wanted to scream at him, explain how maternity and matrimony were driving her out of her mind. Druella wanted to warn about her eccentric daughter and she also wished with all her soul she could trust him as she used to do. 

They reached the close door of the nursery. A purple butterfly on the door flapped its wooden wings. Fernand grinned at the charm before opening the door slowly. 

Facing the door, the window with lilac drapes showed the silhouette of the huge tree on the backward. The wall with its colorful wallpaper was bare, although there were some shelves near the white crib on the left. It was leveled close to the floor as Bellatrix was rather independent, and they even had to take away some of the bars so she could wander freely. 

Under the window, there was a chest full of enchanted toys, mostly untouched. More to the right was a self-cleaning potty. On the corner of the room, Bellatrix was piling blocks. Dressed in a yellow dress, she never looked so pale, with her wild black mane flickering as if it had a life of its own. She knocked down the top half of the building and with an annoyed huff, she wordless ordered all the other pieces down. Ever so slowly, she started over.

“Do you leave her alone like this all the time?” He asked in a low voice.

“She likes to be alone and gets annoyed if I try to play with her or just talk. I don’t think she _actually_ plays. Sometimes she spends hours repeating the same motion.” Druella felt herself blushing. She didn’t want to be criticized for her maternal skills. 

“She’s very connected with her magic, it would make good to encourage her to maintain it as later on it can develop into traces of wordless and wandless magic.” He watched the small child mesmerized “You have a very talented little one here, love.”

Druella laughed, not trying to hide her presence and glad someone was looking at her daughter and _seeing_ she was different. But she would warn no more, as her late tries with Cygnus led to disbelief. She would let Fernand, her brother, to discover it on his own.

He looked at her as if asking permission, at which she nodded. The blond man walked toward Bellatrix and Druella smiled. She didn’t need help from a Black when she had her dark wizard of a brother.

…

Hermione knew she would be two years old soon. She knew it was 1953. She also knew Andromeda would be born in a few weeks. Hermione Jean Granger was an only child and she would happily stay that way, but she still had the memory of an elegant witch, smart and kind, named Andromeda. She still had the memory of the suffering the woman went through.

She would change it. But not now.

As it was, she was busy regaining control over basic actions. Under her mother’s watchful gaze, she tried to learn how to speak, move, and exist without raising alarms. 

It was impossible. Hermione chose to avoid speaking until it would be acceptable to have a larger vocabulary, yet she learned the hard way that knowing the words was different then pronouncing them. So, she did it slowly and for the most part with Ninny. 

Of course, they had a house-elf.

Part of her was dying to let pieces of clothing spread around only to hide and scream _free elf_ when the creature tried to clean it. 

Another was too lonely to even entertain the idea of losing the only company she had. 

With age, her brain developed enough to sustain not too complex lines of thought. She was aware of the level of thinking she had was still very above the normal toddler, but she had her magic to thank for. 

Between forcing Hermione, fragments of Bellatrix, and an infant’s brain together, her magic also fought to stabilize her core. She felt it and also felt when it failed and her mind exploded in painful shreds, forcing her to hours under a special brand of cruciatus. Weaker, she knew, but delimitating enough to force her into hiding inside herself.

Thinking to hard was a trigger, as it forced her magic thin between her soul and her physical body. So, Hermione kept her thoughts light and tried to connect invisible dots as casually as she could. And a plan, soft as a daydream, she built. Three steps.

In any other situation, the first and foremost step would be understanding _why where when_ she was, and then plot. But with her limitations, she gave priority to understand what was happening with her body and how to make it less likely to give her seizures.

_1 – Stabilize body, soul, and magic;_

When she gained full control of little Bellatrix and her mixed power, she would need to understand the _why where when_. Her fuzzy memories, aggressive mood swings, and irritable magic had to have a reason and she would find out. Her past and death were made of glimpses, and more than once she caught something of Lady Lestrange while trying to meditate.

_Staring down at Andromeda, so similar to herself, and screaming CRUCIO only to watch her beloved –_ **_traitor_ ** _– sister writhing on the floor. Voices in the background, but she couldn’t look away from her baby sister. So smart, so beautiful, so utterly disgusting. Deep sadness and a rage strong enough to break her and burn all the world down corrupted her mind._

More emotions than images, she still got enough to know however she came to reborn as Bellatrix Black, the Lestrange came with her. What was the delimiting mark between them? Were they the same – same soul, same magic, same body – crushed together? A deep breath and a piercing pain in her head forced her to change her line of thought (of fear). 

Step two was traced, as urgent as on the first day when she woke to despair herself over her lack of control of her limbs. She feared, more than anything, for her sanity.

_2 – Recover memories to understand why she was where she was;_

There was always the chance of remembering and still not being able to know, but she had nothing at the moment. She would kill for a lead and hadn’t Hermione been once a mother? Avoiding any turbulent feeling, she couldn’t shut the echo of Hugo and Rose from somewhere deep and far away. 

The last step was harder, as it depended completely on the success of the previous two. Yet, in itself was the need for acting. She was Bellatrix Black and she could change everything – if she planned right. Without knowing if she had an actual purpose to fulfill there, however, she was unable to meddle with time without guilt. If she was free to do as she wished, then she would worry about the nature of the time and consequences. 

But her tiny brain still was hers, and theories were drawn and discarded in the blink of her eyes. If she fought to change the timeline only to be fated to step in Bellatrix shoes as a madwoman, trying would be as fruitless as not trying, but less maddening. If the universe realized something was wrong and tried to eliminate her, then even better – worst fate would be to be married to _Rodolphus Lestrange_. She would change things, if she could, or die trying.

The third step would be traced with the information she gained in the other two, and now she was numbering them, she thought about making a list of rules and goals too. Again, for the sake of her sanity. Goal number one would be no marriage with the Lestrange man, she was sure of it.

But her head was hurting, and she needed to get information before tracing any rule. And she knew she could do it, baby steps, until the last one.

_3 – Plan and act._

And she would succeed, mission or not, even if she was alone there. A thread of hope remained, though, and she wondered if Harry or Ron were awake in some mismatched bodies too. But the pain threatened to take over, so she refused to think about it or mourn her fate.

…

Hermione forced her chubby hand to keep a stable hold over the wooden block. With a yellow number one on it, it was similar to her muggle toys. The vision of the small fist was disheartening. She was growing fast and sleeping a lot, yes, but neither could hinder the frustration she felt. 

Not only locked in a toddler body, but she was also a toddler in her stupid needs of attention and colorful distractions. Her conscience was subjugated by childish whims, but it also helped to cover the presence of a mature witch inside a baby as just eccentricity.

Putting a green block on top of the yellow one she focused on her task and started building a small tower. When she was just hovering it with block number nine – purple, as the walls of the nursery – her arm moved too fast and she watched as her work went down. Urging the blocks away with a whisper of her magic, she started it over.

Again, and again, until her motor skills improved, she would play with her toys. A huff of annoyance and the wallpaper turned yellow. She felt like crying, then.

Her magic moved objects at her will and helped her to perform actions such as steal the newspaper from Father or make Mother tend her needs. Anything more complex was very hard to articulate in a way her magic could follow. It was based on instincts, after all.

But accidental magical was confusing, intricated with subconscious desires and very, very hard to undo. She glared at the damn yellow wall and sneered. She could aim her magic at it all she wanted; nothing would happen. 

The moment she felt dangerously close to a temper tantrum, though, with her hair crackling like static, the wall turned to its original purple color. If that was the actual original color, that it is.

Sitting again, she tried to work with blocks without getting too mad. Her mother had a visit downstair, she knew. When they entered the house, the protective spells bounded to the Black family gave her a soft pull. It was not a break-in, so she felt it more as the ringing of a bell deep in her mind. 

Their presence a distant buzzing inside the house, she felt her magic following them, taunting and testing. Uncontrollable, she was aware of everything it touched. When she was Hermione, she was never able to truly taste magic, but Bellatrix could. Like a snake, it spread in the house and surrounded its members. Father’s reacted to hers, but Mother’s was ignorant. 

Now, the person had similar magic to Mother, but darker. She felt when it turned offensive for a few seconds and she wondered if they were fighting. When she tried to sense more, the guest’s power turned to hers, sharp and heavy. Hermione knew she had been caught.

Acting as if nothing had happened, she continued her play with the cursed colorful blocks even if the man and Mother talked as if she wasn’t in the room. This close, she realized how familiar his magic felt when interacting with hers. Without turning to look, she knew he was a relative of hers. A Rosier, she figured. The protections in the house wouldn’t give note if he was a Black.

The man, blonde with a funny mustache, kneeled beside her. Watching him out of the corner of her eyes, she kept building and destroying. 

“Hello, Bellatrix,” she refused to flinch at the sound of her name “I’m your uncle, Fernand, but you can call me Fer if it’s easier for you.”

And then he had her attention. She was dying for information about her family, Black or Rosier. Turning with all the pose she could muster; she looked straight into his eyes and spoke slowly so the words wouldn’t be jumbled. “Hello, uncle Fernand.”

Hermione wouldn’t use a nickname just because it was easier to speak.

“Do you want help building the tower, love?” Clearly the same couldn’t be said about him. Love was better than Bellatrix, though. She shook her head and held herself still. She couldn’t say much, or it would ruin the picture she built with her mother, but she wanted the distraction of a stranger, a glimpse of knowledge about the world her mother didn’t visit. 

The silence did it for him, and he frowned before saying “You’re going to have a sibling soon. Are you excited?” 

Druella walked next to them and smiled at Hermione’s small form, going as far as putting a hand on Fernand’s shoulder. She wanted them to interact. Suspicion crept her spine, so she just nodded yes.

“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” With expectant eyes focused on her, she realized it. He knew, Mother probably told him about things she could do. Yet, the calculating edge was so foreign in a house of bored and passive parents. She felt herself wanting to impress him, and how she hated being a child, then. Curious an innocent, part of couldn't avoid.

“I don’t need to.” He had his eyebrows high in a challenge.

Hermione turned her black eyes to face his and said _Mother can always understand me_ , without speaking any word. 

A neat trick it was, she could throw images and words if the gazes connected. Hermione was sure she hadn’t been able to do that when she was a toddler in her first life. Her mother would have freaked out. Her uncle laughed, sitting on the floor.

“You’re not crazy, Druella. It’s not legilimency, but a rather rough version of it. With time, she may grow to be a natural legilimens.” He turned to speak with his niece, then “You are a very special child, Bellatrix. Can you show me what you can do?”

So, Hermione did. Ordering stuffed toys to dance in circles on the air, she was excited for the first time in her short life, letting it build on her body until it she pushed her magic against his in a strong wave.

He turned to look at her with a lopsided smile. “Such aggressive magic. You will be a powerful duelist one day, putting down wizards and witches despite blood or age. So much potential for such a tiny girl.” 

Both of them left after some time, and Hermione followed them close behind. Sitting on the top of the stairs, she could hear their words spoken in the living room.

“You need to get her a tutor as soon as possible. She has amazing control of her magic, no small feat when it’s so stormy and intense as hers. Don’t know how your beloved husband didn’t notice it.” She heard Mother huffing. “I’m serious, Cygnus can sense magic, he should know. There is only one born like this in a generation and she is lucky enough to be a Black. You have the means, make it happen.”

“Cygnus is hesitant because of her… hard days.”

“The ambient lacks stimulation and her magic of ways to lash out. It could be building against her.” Mother asked him how he knew all of it, then. “Because she’s fricking bored. You wrote about it to me, she needs a challenge or a distraction, love." 

And then a softer "I know you are doing your best with Bellatrix while also so close to giving birth... but remember that you can always seek your family for help.”

…

Weeks after Uncle Fernand’s visit, Druella gave birth to her second daughter, Andromeda Black.

Brown-haired and sweet and needy, the newborn held a ringlet of Bellatrix’s hair in a tiny fist. Sitting on the couch, her oldest daughter watched the baby as if she was the world. For the first time in her life, the toddler smiled, full and bright.

Druella’s disappointment with the gender of the baby was washed away by the love and pride overwhelming her chest and making her weep. Holding Cygnus' hand, she couldn’t be happier. 

After all, she had the love of her life and her two girls with her. They were unbreakable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! See you next week!


	3. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cygnus is shocked out of his daze. Hermione enjoys being an older sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took longer than I expected. And I didn't cut in two chapters because I wanted it to end with Narcissa birth. Consequence? A very long chapter ahead, guys. Hope you enjoy it!

The department of International Magical Cooperation - fifth level - wasn’t a coveted one. With substantial bureaucracy on each step of any decision, one mistake could stain the British Ministry of Magic in front of the whole world. The work was fundamental, yet the workers were mostly replaceable. But Arcturus himself had advised Cygnus on which career to follow.

Lord Black called him to talk right after the result of his O.W.L.s came out. He was an awkward boy at the time, too young to realize the importance of the said meeting. Cygnus had dreamed – in the privacy of his mind, of course – of becoming a Curse Breaker. Reality made itself present, then, and together they plotted. 

Orion, the heir, would take their seat in the Wizengamot after learning under his father. During this time, Cygnus would make his way in the fifth level, burying himself under tomes and tomes describing rules and hypothetic events in the International Magical Office of Law. Easy to get the job, at least with his N.E.W.T. results, but hard to ascend in the career.

Repetitive work where every step was already traced made him stuck, a cog in a well-oiled machine. But he needed to complete some years there, as Arcturus explained, before forcing his way into International Confederation of Wizards. To succeed would mean a new level of influence not only in Britain but over the whole wizarding world. 

The current leader of the confederation was the Supreme Mugwump, Albus Dumbledore, a known light wizard. He got the position after defeating Gellert Grindelwald and ending the Global Wizarding War. Fair, he knew it was, but the Headmaster had a strong and biased view of the Dark arts, so the Blacks had the duty of harmonizing his decisions and protecting their legacy, even if it meant being the opposition. 

But for the man in his twenties he was, it meant the study of uncountable laws no one would ever bother to know about the usage of portkeys at an international level. One would guess it was work for the sixth level, Department of Magical Transportation, but no, it had the word  _ international _ and therefore Cygnus' pleasure to delve in.

He did not outright hate the job, though. Cygnus was doing it for his blood and his community. Besides, it would be just plebeian to have a short-sighted view of his occupation. 

But it was completely acceptable to get a drink after work and make passive-aggressive comments to his idle older brother. Not that Cygnus complained, that would be just out of character of him. 

“If you keep the whining, I swear I’m going to talk to Arcturus about his unbecoming behaviour of yours.” Alphard was no fun to talk to, sometimes.

“No, dear brother, we all know you are too afraid of getting a step too close of the man and be forced into a paying job.” Cygnus took a swig of his Firewhisky. 

“You do know I work, don’t you?”

“Playing with your cauldron is not a job. Sleeping around isn’t either.” He knew Alphard liked his dark magic books and even darker potions. The lovers were a subject he preferred to avoid. 

“I got some galleons with a publication, just so you know” his older brother downed his glass in one go before asking the waitress for more. She refilled his cup and winked at him, he smiled before adding “and all this without drinking myself numb every day or crying to my brother about the unfairness of life.”

Cygnus was gaping at him. Unfairness? From all of them, Alphard was the one having a good life, so he said: “You have no wife, no child, no career nor obligation. Let me talk with Arcturus about it, please." 

Alphard laughed before answering. “That’s where you’re mistaken, baby brother, I do have an obligation. Every Friday, to hear your moaning. If it’s a lucky week, I also need to wipe poor Orion’s tears.”

His head snapped with the name, and he felt a bit dizzy “Orion?”

“It depends on how much mercy our dear Walburga has been showing him. Once she called me, the good-for-nothing brother, to complain too. As the collective confessor, I shall say you are indeed lucky, Cygnus.”

The man just shook his head and downed his drink. He had a third of what Alphard drunk and he was already feeling tingles. His brother continued, still sober. “Believe me, you think Arcturus as all-controlling? Think about working  _ under  _ him. Or being married to his only son. Blessed is Lucretia who married away, or he would make her a schedule for her  _ duties _ .”

“Druella is a blessing, I know. Think, Alphard, he could have married his daughter to one of us.” He shivered. Lucretia was Walburga’s age, pretty as a doll, but when she spoke it was her father’s words. Worst, the said husband would have to live with close contact with the Lord of the family.

Arcturus Black was a powerful wizard with a sharper mind than he should have been blessed with. Spreading their kin in positions of power and planning lives as he would play chess, he was the one Cygnus asked permission before proceeding to Druella’s father for her hand. His eyes, though, could see right through any of them. A master legilimens, even if it was never said aloud. 

“Your poor wife, how is she? Walburga was cursing you a few weeks ago for not inviting her to meet your daughter – the new one, I mean.” Alphard tutted.

“Walburga will meet her when she wants to, no one’s stopping her. And she did meet Bellatrix.”

“Yes. It was mostly to check if the girl was a squib than anything, for what I heard. The confusion, brother, is why you keep them from meeting the family. Don’t mistake my words, please, I speak of the closer ones. Not a big gathering, just not hiding them, if you may.”

“I could, is just… Bella’s not an easy child, that’s all.” Cygnus kept himself from scratching the nape of his neck. His children were always a difficult topic.

“There are still more to come, I reckon. Hard or not, your wife deals with them every day.” His older brother bent his head then, a conspiratorial smile in place. “Is Druella good for you?”

“Good? She’s perfect, Alphard. Where’s this coming from?”

“You, for instance. Aleatory nights working late, drinking with me, and our little rendezvous every Friday, of course. Druella was always a stunning witch. Social too.” Cygnus felt nauseous for an instant, but Alphard kept going “Isolated with two babies. One you define as hard. Yet, she can deal with everything by herself  _ and _ keep you satisfied.”

“Just say what you want to say, damn it!” He had his knuckles white.

“Well, baby brother, I think I taught you better regarding women. Here you are bitching about your work. Have you ever heard her complain? I wonder who’s keeping her satisfied.”

Cygnus had to slow breath his rage away. His brother’s magic was too still, and he realized he was gripping his wand. Words slipped past his lips “Druella wouldn’t. She knew it when she married me, she knows who I am. Alphard, she’s a Black now. She wouldn’t.”

Alphard gave a dry chuckled “Very eloquent, Cygnus. I tried to bet with Walburga, but she jinxed me because  _ don’t be inappropriate Alphard _ .” He made a high-pitched voice, in the end, mimicking their sister. Cygnus was pale. “Don’t you wonder if Druella has a lover or how long will take for her to get one? Orion was shocked by the notion, I guess our dearest sister is growing on him.”

Cygnus stood up, the world spinning around him. “She wouldn’t risk our daughters. She wouldn’t leave them with the house-elf.”  _ But couldn’t she arrange for someone to babysit? _ There was that day he got home, and she was sweaty, hair in a tight braid, bouncing around. Smiling to herself. Secretive smiles, he could picture it now. Ever since Andromeda was born, she had been different.

A lover. 

Had his wife, the woman he courted, the girl he asked – hiding his trembling hands – to go to Hogsmeade with him, had Druella betrayed him? Did she choose her lover from one of their classmates? Did she fuck him on  _ their _ bed? 

Black spots on his vision, he gathered his thoughts. Druella wouldn’t. Even if she hated him, she wouldn’t risk being shunned from their society. She knew him, she knew he was a very,  _ very _ calm man. And knew he was a Black, and their curses could last a lifetime.

But this was Alphard’s words. Damned be the man, Cygnus had been sure he and his wife were great. One talk, it was all it took to destroy it and make him think about the faint scent of cologne he once sniffed on her robes, or the evening she spent writing letters, or how frequently her face was blank, reminding him of when he was just another one in her life.

“I’m going home” were the only words he said before walking straight to an apparition point. He heard his brother laughing in the background but couldn’t care less.

He closed his eyes and apparated.

It was empty.

The house was empty.

He ran around like a fool, barging in peaceful rooms, stumbling against the furniture, but silent as a dead man. He called the house-elf. He knew they weren’t home; his magic would feel if they were. 

“Where is Druella?” He growled the question.

“Ninny don’t know, mistress said to Ninny to prepare dinner and fish, Master’s favourite, she said.” He walked past the house-elf. In the nursery, everything was in place. Bella’s small bed, Andromeda’s crib, clothes inside the drawers, it was all there.

He took a deep breath. He was overreacting. Yet, even if she did nothing, he was now aware she could. And the worst, he wouldn’t even suspect anything was amiss. 

He ran to the washroom, throwing up the Firewhisky and lunch into the toilet. Mind racing, he could still pick the worst thoughts. Was she thinking of  _ him _ when having sex with Cygnus? Their children had enough of Black in them to make him sure she had kept that promise. He washed his face with cold water, rinsing his mouth and glimpsing at his pale face in the mirror. 

Cygnus chose her for a reason. Yes, he was elated when she told him she liked him. But he had loved her before it. He loved her before getting down on his knee, before giving her flowers, before the afternoons spent around the lake, before even knowing what love was. 

He would wait. And while he waited, the dust was suspended, seconds stretching, the tragedy-to-happen wearing him down. He waited for the impact.

And when Druella arrived through the floo, he had his heart pounding in his mouth. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair arranged in an elaborate braid, dark blue dress reaching her ankles. Her pale skin contrasting against the black robe. It had been a gift from Walburga, he was reminded, with the colours of their house in the embroiled details. Green and golden intertwined on the sleeve and a small crow of maroon thread near her wrist. She was dressed in their colours, even if the dress underneath was casual to her standards. 

In her shoulder, one head of light brown hair hid. Dromeda was almost sleeping snuggled on her chest. Bella had her hair wide and light blue robes dirty. They were holding hands. He wondered when had his wife taught their oldest to use floo. Not particularly hard, he mused, as their fireplace was massive enough to fit them side by side. His second thought was where she was, but that was soon extinguished when she smiled at him. His bloodshed eyes or unusual presence at home early on a Friday night were judged indifferent.

Druella walked towards him and pointed to the sleeping baby with her chin. Bella yawned and Cygnus felt his heart would explode. They were here. He scooped his daughter with hesitant movements. She felt awkward tucked on his chest. Hot and sleepy, she hummed when he took her to the nursery. Adjusting Dromeda in the crib, he watched as Bella, small and wobbling, sat on a pillow right beside her sister. He raised his eyes to his wife, accepting her nod as a signal it was normal. 

He kissed his older child in the forehead before turning back to the crib and bending to kiss the smaller one. She smelt that strange scent only babies seem to have, a mixture of sweat and baby powder. His magic, even unstable and tense, still felt how Bella had involved the room with hers, blanketing her sister in a swinging moment he doubted anyone else noted.

Cygnus also felt how her magic stopped for the seconds he bent to kiss Dromeda good night, surrounding them in a disquieting stillness. She looked at him, eyes dark and chubby cheeks, in all her cherub glory, and he  _ knew _ she had smelled the alcohol reeking from his body, felt the stress in the lines of his face, identified the aggressive pattern of his magic. And he also knew she was unimpressed. 

Blaming his tipsy head for the paranoic line of thoughts, he walked out of the purple room. He could have made a mistake today, had Druella appeared without the children, had she appeared without the need for silence. Cygnus was no fool, he took the opportunity and tried to cleanse his head of the irrational desire of destruction.

His wife waited for him in the sitting room. He sat on the stiff armchair in front of her and took one of the two cups with steamy tea. He sniffed. Herbal. She held hers with that ingrained grace she had. It made him think of a large feline, those with calculated movements and eyes so warm, yet so ruthless. He sipped the beverage and it burned his tongue. 

“Where were you today?” He asked, forcing occlumency shields down, his inner turmoil turned into a distant storm. It felt wrong using it with his wife, though. The last time he tried they were thirteen and she mocked him to death and back.

“Why, Cygnus, I was in the Rosier Estate.” Druella looked down at her tea. “And you? Wasn’t your brother or the drink favourable today? Merlin knows how bothersome the Ministry can be.” 

“You should have asked before taking the girls to meet them. My family would love to get the chance to meet them, yet I keep you from any harassment or upsetting meeting as the situation demands.” It was one of the few times he spoke in a harsher tone with her. “For how long this has been happening?”

She had a small frown in place. Cup on the table, she held her hands together over her knees. “Not long, I think. Fernand is getting married, and so, I’m helping Mother with the preparations. Bellatrix appreciates the change of scenario and Andromeda enjoys the attention. Forgive me, Cygnus, I thought you were aware.”

She hadn’t answered. “Why would I?”

“Oh, well, because is no secret. Walburga and I talked about it just the past week. And I may have mentioned it to Lord Black, Arcturus, in one or another letter. On another occasion, I sent a note to your office. And we even talked about Fernand’s fiancé, a Fawley girl a few years older than us.” Cygnus blinked twice. He could recall something about a Fawley, the family belonging to the twenty-eight truly purebloods, while also being traditionally sorted into Hufflepuff. 

“Fernand is with a Badger? Can’t say I was expecting that. Walburga told me nothing about visiting, though.” 

Druella smiled kindly at him, amused by his lack of attention or damaged memory “I’m surprised she didn’t. She thinks Andromeda shows more of the Rosier colouring than the expected. Watered down Black, I believe was her words.”

His family was blessed with the immaculate skin, just to be cursed by the quick spreading blushes. Notably, a Black doesn’t embarrass themselves. Yet, he felt his face aflame. How absent had he been? 

He would make it right. Cygnus gave her a thin smile before extending his arm and touching her with care. Holding hands across a tea table, she had the same fond yet complacent look in her eyes she used to have when they were younger.

But they were young, so painfully young. He would make her satisfied and, maybe, happy.

…

She was naked beside him; her body flushed a pleasant red and brimming with sweat. The messy blonde hair spilling over her pillow and reaching him made his nose itch, but he wouldn’t dare break the peaceful gaze she had. The words, though, overcame him “I was afraid you had left me.” 

He cringed at the needy undertone of his phrase but watched mesmerized how she blinked her daze away and reached for him, setting her head on his chest and a hand running his arm. Cygnus shivered. “Left you?” she repeated, her body vibrating against him as she spoke.

“You would leave the girls with someone, just to disappear into the world with an unknown lover. No House weighing you down, no expectation setting you back.” Cygnus closed his eyes as if he could blind himself of his vulnerability. She had his heart in her closed fist, and sometimes he was afraid she knew it. 

“Oh, love, I would never do this. My House does not make me small, but I understand if yours does. The known outlines are not feared but dreaded. Another woman, foolish perhaps, could think you cower at the notion of your wife acting on the fantasies you have for yourself.” She spoke and he was glad she couldn’t see his face. He was naked and raw, and she was shielded by her pragmatic ways. 

She added after a few seconds “Regardless of whose fantasy it is, I would never leave my children behind. Not for a new lover or a new House.” He felt Druella smiling against his chest and wondered if he was vulnerable tonight, maybe she was honest. “Of course, husband of mine, I would take them with me.”

He laughed, drawing invisible lines on her back “You wouldn’t. They are Blacks, and so are you. But I can see you taking them to France for a few weeks if your hand is forced.”

“You’re right. Black they are. I’m not, though. Not yet. Maybe I will be, someday. For now, you’re stuck with a Rosier wife. And if my hand is forced, I will take you with me too.” 

“Rosier, Black, you are here, Druella. No one will hear me complaining if you want to practice your French over talking to Arcturus.”

She shifted against him, and without seeing he still knew she had that superiority air of hers in place. Druella would be lifting the corner of her mouth in an almost smirk, with knowing eyes and condescending expression telling him he had no idea what he was talking about.

…

Hermione watched Andromeda grow up with avid eyes. Her little sister had a light chestnut hair, cut short over her shoulder as she had the habit of dirtying herself. She had sticky hands, splitting head squeaks, and stumbled more than walked. 

Sometimes Hermione would be walking only to be stopped by a pulling hand on the hem of her dress or a quick sweep of fingers holding her hair. Grumbling and babbling, Andromeda followed her like a lost duckling. 

Since the first time she looked down at the small baby, she felt an instinctual type of love overcoming her. Andromeda had so many tragedies waiting for her. However, on Hermione’s lap, she was just a newborn. There could be a timeline, but fate was a concept of Divination. 

She wouldn’t allow them the same steps and the same mistakes. There would be no blast on little Andromeda’s image on the old tapestry, not with her around.

Watching her baby sister sleep, Hermione’s magic was uniform. The love, the desperate will of protecting, made it stable with intent. Before, she had wondered if Lestrange’s impulses wouldn’t lash out against Andromeda, but they did not.

Instead, Hermione was led by the foreboding notion she would fail her sister.  _ Again _ .

Maybe Lestrange had loved Andromeda, in her twisted way. Maybe she felt she was responsible for her sister’s choice. Hermione couldn’t know. Glimpses she saw, but they were made of mixed feelings and anger, and so much rage.

Although she knew Andromeda was precious to her, she was still surprised when her magic didn’t alert her of the toddler movements. She was always aware of Druella and Cygnus – if he was in the house, that is – but little Dromeda raised no alerts. 

Despite the confusion notions she had about her sister, she enjoyed how her magic became less wild under her will. Her body too was better. Maybe because she was always reaching out, enchanting toys and stuffed animals for Andromeda’s enjoyment, while also advancing on her own, there had been no more suffocating pain. Yes, she dealt with her fair deal of migraines, but nothing disabling. 

She felt her first goal complete itself with the passing of months. 

They spent most days in the house, but at least one time per week they would visit the Rosier estate. Hermione loved each second of it. 

The house was large, with wide rooms and big windows. Pillars of marble and floor of white porcelain made it light and spacious. There were small pieces of decoration, old portraits of French-speaking wizards, and a large library that made her feel like she was stepping on a historic site. 

Their family was pleasant too. While Walburga’s magic would aggressively roam around, probing hers and provoking her mother’s, Honorine – her grandmother - was a wave of warmth and calm. She had smiled at the small Bellatrix and welcomed her with a plate full of candy. Hermione nibbed at a sugar quill and was transported to an easier time, with deadly shadows, yes, but good company too. 

The grandfather, Anatole, was an older copy of uncle Fernand. His hair, a pale shade of blonde, hid any occasional white strand, and he had a moustache similar to his son’s. The man and his wife were in their mid-fifties. Druella relaxed around them, letting Hermione walk without much supervision while Honorine spoiled Andromeda rotten. 

Her favourite times, though, were when their uncle visited them there. Fernand would pick her up and spin her around the place, and even if the adult in her was too busy thinking, the action reminded her of her late father, Richard, who would throw her up and call her his little princess. So, she laughed and hugged him tightly. 

More than that, he would accept her as his little shadow, and she would hear him speaking to her mother frequently. He would advise her to stand her own against Cygnus, but Hermione knew she listened more to Honorine, who with a soft voice and kind touch would explain far-fetched ways to guilt-trip a man into submission. 

Useful tips it could be, but Hermione was far more interested in the old tomes and lost parchments Fernand would often search in the library. She presumed that was his objective with each visit. Hermione would see him looking at the sides before slipping a particularly dark book into his robes and sending her a wink. 

Other times he would sit beside her between the shelves, letting her point covers. They would sit on the couch, side by side, and he would open the book on his lap, reading aloud until he realized her eyes were moving along the words. He laughed, then, and called her his smarty little niece. When he had his own – mostly extremely forbidden at her time – favoured books opened, he would allow her to peek at the pages and even answered some questions.

Maybe he wasn’t the best influence, but Hermione was a Black and a Rosier now, and she loved the knowledge he offered. Curses, rituals, and magic theories she never dreamed about existing were his favourites. 

Three years old was better than one, but she still tired easily and slept against his arm only to wake up under a soft blanket, tucked against him. 

Hermione also loved strolling on the lawn with Andromeda wobbling after her. The women would seat on sun loungers during idle afternoons when her grandfather and uncle were away from the Ministry. She would help her little sister catch bugs and laugh when both of them tumbled to the ground.

It was in one of those idyllic days when the sun burned a bright red and the sky was touched with pink and golden, that Andromeda said her name for the first time. They were surrounded by tall grass and long shadows of trees. Soon Druella would call them back and they would floo home, both of them already tired of exploring.

Hermione was sitting while the toddler ripped turf from the earth with small groans. Destructive little things, babies were. Andromeda turned to her, then, with a blade of grass glued on her chubby finger. She shook her hand and called her sister’s attention burbling something close to “Bewa”. 

Laughing, she cleaned her baby sister’s hand. “Bella,” she said, “my name is  _ Bella _ .” 

Dromeda repeated her butchered version of the name before grabbing her hand. Tiny and demanding, she guided them to their mother.

Only later that night, watching Andromeda sleep, Hermione realized what she said. 

It felt natural at the moment, even if it made her stomach churn now. But she was Bella to her sister, not Bellatrix Lestrange. A name was just a name, she repeated to herself.

Before, with Cygnus and Druella it felt just empty. A mask she had to wear. But alive, so alive as she was with her dark hair, loving sister, and doting uncle, the name was real, fitting, and Morgana forgive her, part of her was Bellatrix Black. 

Not Lestrange, never. But Granger, with her forgotten late life but vivid Hogwarts memories, was constant. She was born Bellatrix Black as once she was born Hermione Jean Granger. 

Family makes you who you are, and Andromeda made her Bellatrix Black.

That night, Hermione dreamed about being tortured under the Lestrange woman’s wand and woke up the heat of her sister's body against hers.

…

12 Grimmauld Place was familiar enough to give her chills while also being completely different and making her, therefore, sad. She missed the house, the nights spent talking with Ginny, the huge library she explored under Sirius’ supervision, the kitchen they spied the Order’s meetings, and the drawing-room where they got together. 

It was a special piece of her memories. And now, all she had of her past was that; memories. Visiting the house and seeing the well-lit rooms, sleek floor, and shiny ornaments fundamentally upset her. 

If there was no one to share the past with her, it could be as well as inexistent. Hermione, Harry, and Ron were a possibility that happened only in the mind of a small child. The opulence made her feel insignificant for all the wrong reasons.

Walburga guided them to the drawing-room where the rest of the family expected them. An eighteen months old Andromeda hid on Druella’s neck while Cygnus introduced them. A small gathering it was. Walburga, and two tall men. Both of them had the dark hair and pale complexion, the slightly shorter one with hair tied in a low ponytail was presented as uncle Orion and the other, with a wild mane and moustache was Alphard. She tilted her head down as she had seen her mother do. They laughed.

Hermione was curious. She knew Alphard had helped Sirius when he ran away. The way he wore his hair long and curly reminded her of the last heir of the Blacks. But the haunting sound that was Orion’s laugh made her want to cry. 

She had had a troubled relationship with the fugitive. He was an alcoholic man walking in a path of self-destruction. Yet, Harry held him as his only family. She had wanted to shake some sense in the man, but no. Lestrange, again, destroyed it all.

But Hermione could pretend and close her eyes for an instant, and Orion’s deep laugh with a rough edge would be Sirius’. She didn’t. 

“I heard so much about you, Bella,” Alphard told her. Druella was talking with Walburga about the new pregnancy and how she hoped it was a boy while her father drank with Orion. 

Hermione kept her eyes on the small Andromeda who played on the rug and emptied her homesick mind of the melancholy. The present was too demanding for her to lose herself in an exclusive past.

He touched her elbow and she turned sharply to look at him. He had his face void of any emotion, black eyes so indifferent and so attentive it made her nervous. Alphard was analyzing her. Thanking Merlin, Morgana, and whoever she could for her reputation as a quiet child, she remained silent.

“Your father told me you have trouble controlling your temper and he thought you would be better at home.” He laughed and said, “I was just like that too.”

She wondered what a three-to-four years old would be able to answer, resigning to glaring and saying with her childish voice, “I don’t have a temper.”

“Of course, you don’t. You’re a young lady and your father is foolish, indeed.” He still had his hand on her elbow. She wondered if all the members of the Black family were this imposing and watched with the corner of her eyes as her sister extended her tiny hand to a familiar music box. The ornamented details had called her eyes the first time around and it did again. 

In another world, Ginny had closed it when Harry and Hermione listened to the sinister tune that made them drowsy. At the time, she thought the box had the potential of doing worse than putting people to sleep but never had time or space to test it.

She took a step to stop Andromeda, but Alphard’s hold was unrelenting. “Still, he asked me once about a particular skill you seemed to have.” She glanced at her sister and spoke “Andromeda!” only to watch as he raised his eyebrows and kept uncaring eyes trained on her.

The rest of the family was busy, and the little girl smacked her hand on the lid, trying to force it open. Hermione thought about how strong the enchantment would strike the tiny body. She would fall, hit her head, and get hurt, at best. The table was of wood with a glass panel on the top and although there was a rug on the floor, the risk was there even if the song only knocked the baby out.

For the last time, she turned to glare at her uncle, mouth open to call her mother for help. However, the moment their eyes locked, and she, in her despair, allowed the line of chaotic previsions over a possible injury to be projected into his mind.

In a second, he flickered his wand and Andromeda grumbled. In another, he was inside her mind.

Hermione froze. Panic, so strong and primal made her an animal caught in the headlights. Her previous training of occlumency kept her from enumerating the causes behind her distress, but her overwhelming fear boomed inside the connection they shared.

He could get the worst kind of information before she could stop him, that, if she was even able to. He stayed there, burning presence foremost in her head, but not delving in it.

“Bella!” Cygnus called her from across the room and Alphard was gone. Instantly, her uncle was under the aggressive backlash of her magic. She felt the stormy wave tightening her throat and electrifying her black hair. 

“It’s considerate rude to force yourself in another’s mind, pretty lady. You see, if your magic is too aggressive, it makes you defenceless. Slipping in your little head, darling” he tapped her forehead, mirth clear in his voice “was too easy to be fair. We need to have that father of yours searching for a tutor.”

Another hand in her shoulder and she held back a flinch. Her father was there with Orion. Walburga and Druella had stopped talking, and Hermione's heart was hammering against her chest. If she was less experienced, she would think they could hear it; the booming in her ears and the sound of her breathing.

Alphard didn’t get up from his kneeling position but let go of her arm. “Her magic just spiked, what did you do?” It was the first time she heard her father upset with anything. 

“She’s a natural legilimens, little brother. If I had to guess, I would say she must have some inclination for occlumency too, but she needs training.” Then, he smiled “All of that you should know, with your magic sensitivity.”

Cygnus blushed high on his cheeks. Orion exchanged a look with Walburga, while Druella just smiled. Hermione knew it was all old news for her. 

“I’ll even let it slip away how you already knew about the enchantment in the music box,” Alphard whispered before getting up. He winked at her and said aloud “so be sure to make me your favourite uncle.”

Hermione blinked her daze away. If he inquired about how she knew it, what answer could she give him? Alphard was able to pick it from her mind, so she needed to be certain he wouldn’t ever need it. 

Or that would never be able to. 

Watching her uncle explain to the others how she projected her thoughts and made them sound organic in his mind, Hermione knew she needed to go to step two of her planning. She needed her memories, she needed the division between Granger, Lestrange, and now, Black. 

She had to work on her occlumency to get control of her mind, and wasn’t it fortunate that she was in dire need of mind shields too? 

…

A few months later, Narcissa Black was born. Druella almost died of blood loss on the delivery bed. Hermione watched her parents grieving for a son that would never be born.

The blonde baby cried more than Andromeda, but less than herself. Her father once hovered the crib, only to touch the newborn’s thin hair and whisper  _ Rosier _ . Hermione was moved to a separate room and presented to a severe woman who would tutor her. 

Even if Andromeda escaped her bed and slipped into Hermione’s room, she missed the nursery. A tiny baby, who in another world dared to fight for a better future, slept alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I would love to learn your thoughts about it! In this chapter I again took liberties with canon, bending the floo to work at my will and making the Blacks' family crest the one in the movie, not the other J.K. sketched. Hope you liked it!


	4. Duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga fights for more. Hermione tries to deal with herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long waiting time, even longer chapter. Hope you'll like it!

The image in the mirror always glared back at her. She was young, she knew she was. Beautiful, too. She had her wild black hair made into elaborate braids, with small ringlets framing her face. With pale skin and dark eyes, Walburga had the aristocratical traces of the family. Maybe her face was a bit thin, or her cheekbones too accentuate, but she knew she was pretty.

Not that it mattered. She could have been similar to a tree; her fate would be the same. Her mother, Irma, had sat down with her when she was eight years old and explained she had a fiancé. Orion, a small child – he was four at the time, all chubbiness of a baby on his face and prone to crying fits – her second cousin. 

Her mother held her crying face, dried her tears, and explained that was her duty and she would do what was expected of her. The memory was bitter, yet years later she understood why her mother told her about her arranged marriage at so tender age. Too young, she had kissed Orion’s bruises, searched for his favourite teddy bear, and watched over him while he played with her brothers. 

Irma Black née Crabbe made her hate her second cousin, and by consequence, created a rift in any bond they could have developed. She would see Orion as her curse, her fate, her opportunity, but never like a (younger) sibling as Lucretia was. 

Raised together, contempt was what she needed to separate what he would grow to be from the cute baby in front of her.

However, that was a mature perspective, she knew it. During her time in Hogwarts, sharing a room with Lucretia and other teenage girls, she watched them gossiping about boys, gushing over the filth, and sharing confidences. Therefore, during her time in Hogwarts, Walburga hated them and hated Orion, and resented them all. 

Lucretia would whisper something about another student to her friends, and they would all giggle, only to send Walburga a pity glance later. Because she, a pretty girl of fifteen years old, was betrothed to her second cousin (on the tongue of the alumni it was her cousin and to the wicked: her brother) who was in his first year. A child. 

So, when Orion started Hogwarts, her mother sat with her again. Irma was a strong woman with brown hair and brown eyes, but she was also beautiful, more so because of the fierce expression she always carried. Quick to anger, she had no patience for kids or for her husband, Pollux. To be fair, he had no patience either but was passive enough to let the woman rule. 

Walburga could still hear her mother, with a hand covering hers and eyes sharp, saying “You will do your duty and your duty _only_. The rest, Walburga, is your choice.” She told her then how it was so much not her choice to marry little Orion, to what her mother replied “He will be Lord Black one day, and you will be a Lady. Not his, but of all of this family.”

She had shaken her head, what did she care about power when her steps had been traced before her birth? When anything she conquered was exactly what any girl born in her place would achieve? She felt like she was paper, weightless, a dried ink in a finished book.

But her mother held her chin and spoke in a low voice “For the many blesses that have fallen upon this House, it is also cursed with men whose magic is strong, minds keen, but weak of spirit.” Walburga had her eyes huge, then. “Daughter of mine, you will lead. The chair from which Arcturus paces our lives is promised to you if you so desire. You must marry the boy and give him an heir. More than that, it’s yours to give or take.”

She understood.

Walburga Black, to be Walburga Black (because there were benefits to marry into the family, as to keep one’s name), treated her peers with disdain. Lucretia, and her veiled pity, Alphard and his disregard for the good costumes, Orion and his silent treatments, and Cygnus, when he was old enough to be his usual self-centred self in Hogwarts. She ignored them all, even if they sat side by side during the meals.

She would give her body and her life for them, someday. But not her time, not before she was obliged to.

She watched how the Slytherins were torn between adoration and fear over a filth half-blood, and guided the purebloods with a good head on their shoulders – Abraxas, with white-blonde hair and small smiles, helped her – while some others mixed themselves with dirt (Mulciber, Nott, Lestrange, Avery, and _Rosier_ , whose sister married Cygnus).

Walburga saw men – those, offspring of noble Houses - hang their head low under the gaze of some half-blood. Weak, all of them, she thought at the time and would think later, too. She would not forget. More, she would fight for their world, fight against the invasion of mudbloods and their sheer stupidity, acid against the traditions and fundament of the wizarding society.

She finished her education and waited for him, for Orion, to finish his own. Between learning more about the Black magic and dusty tomes, she buried her dreams about Abraxas and his gentleman manners with her childish hopes. Walburga became a woman after she embraced her position in the family and refused to look back.

The marriage, like most Black affairs, was extremely private. Walburga barely remembered anything about the day. The consumption, however, was burned in her brain. Orion had tried to kiss her, and she turned her cheek. She had closed eyes and hands tight on the sheets when she heard a soft scoff. She refused to move.

It was a duty, nothing more. She would give him what was needed of her, and not another inch. 

Orion had whispered a spell, then, and she felt she something warm _inside_ her. A tear of shame she hid against the pillow when he moved to enter her, his hot skin against whatever he had done making a wet sound. It hurt and hurt and hurt, and she refused to cry and refused to open her eyes.

The pain was her duty, and even if his presence made it worst, she had been expecting it. But, no, young Orion wasn’t appeased.

It was the worst part, then, when he slipped a hand between her tights and moved again and again until her body shivered, and he found a rhythm. Always the patient, he took his time studying her reactions. The instinct of closing her legs together took hold of her, but, how could she? Maybe she would taunt him if she wasn’t too tender for that. After some time, with him still moving inside her, Walburga felt her body trembling and clenching, and she gasped. 

When he was finished, Orion lied beside her, eyes locked on the ceiling. 

One year of the embarrassing sex – he wouldn’t stop until he had made her finish, forcing it to taste like _more_ than duty – and she found no choice to make, no position to be claimed. 

The child they had to produce was only a daydream and their shared bed became cold and hadn’t Walburga been grateful? There was something inherently humiliating in the sex they used to have. The pleasure he took from her was that, stolen. She knew he got off watching her response to his touch. Sometimes, she would glimpse at his infuriating face, reddened by the exercise, and realize he enjoyed it. 

The years made no difference. She knew any power would be only achieved if Orion decided to be more than a scarecrow, or if they had a son. Both options were quite scary for her.

Outside of their huge and so empty house, Walburga was treated the same. With a pat on the shoulder from her father and condescending words from her mother (she still had a child to provide, of course), it felt like nothing was changed. After dinner, she was still expected to leave the table to the men. They would talk politics, ask for Firewhisky, and huddle themselves in a different sitting room.

Orion would go with them. For Merlin’s sake, even Cygnus and Alphard were expected to interact and plot. As if they planned anything, that is, besides following the chewed instructions the Lord of the Black spelt for them.

Yet, she was unwelcome. When Cygnus’ first daughter was born, Arcturus accepted his absence from the family dinners as the consequences of a baby. Yet, he called Walburga over with distinct orders; meet and report. She did as she was told, and once again, he denied her participation in anything that wasn’t previously planned by him for her to do.

Something changed, though, after she visited her niece for the first time. Her rage for her broken hopes had matured with the years, growing to be a force on its own. Orion and Walburga had been married for years. Six, six cursed years and there was no child to put end to their monthly duties. 

That day, she came back home and screamed at him, slapped the glass from his hand, and cried. Cursing his apathy and blanched face with words so she wouldn’t curse him with her wand. Pathetic, he would watch her, watch her frustrations and do _nothing_.

The pleasure she had in taunting him was diminished by his lack of reaction. The same dead eyes she stared when bonding her life to his, the same too young boy she had been forced to take the hand. She hated him, the one who had everything at his fingertips but preferred to sulk and drag her down with the lethargy he loved so much.

Orion had his façade in place when she asked him why was her duty to care for the family, to watch over the new generation of Blacks, or talk to his father when _he_ was the heir? When would he take his place so she could at least think without Arcturus on her neck? Orion laughed and said, “My father nurtures the present and future enough for us all.”

“You’re weak” the words escaped her, and she didn’t dare to regret them. The shades twisted his face and undressed him of his indifference. Enraged but compliant, he was. 

“My father gave me a dull woman to marry, and that I did. He asks me an heir, and I shall give him one. He polishes me as a politician, and this I work to be. My every breath is for this family, dear cousin” he took a step closer to her, and in front of the burning hearth, his eyes were the darkest she had ever seen. 

“If I take pleasure in petty details or do only and uniquely my obligation, I’m not to blame.” For the first time, Walburga saw Orion Black. He feasted in the same resentment she lived on. 

“I never asked for it either, the life stolen from you is the same our burden reaped from me,” she went closer to him “all I ask, husband, is for a chance to be more than your lady wife.”

Her joy, then, had been making fun of Orion. Subtly, of course, but the jabs were all directed to make him squirm. Sometimes he would clench his jaw or look at the other side, but he usually kept his cool. Now, he had eyes bright and voice harsh. She saw the Black on him, on the hair so dark it made hers brownish in comparison. The result of a careful linage, she doubted a more handsome man lived.

He smiled. “So be it, Walburga.” 

She blinked and he repeated “You want to sit at the damn table? Sit.”

The fury on his face was so similar to hers and for the first time, Walburga understood the appeal of marrying in the family. Looking at him, even if he had darker eyes, darker hair, was almost like looking at the mirror. The same intensity, the same edge on their expressions. 

He was fueled by the same resentment that burned in her veins. Where she refused to be just his wife, he rebelled by refusing to be anything else. Mother was right, he was weak. Too comfortable to act, Orion was satisfied with his anger. Walburga wasn’t. “And if Arcturus says something?”

“He won’t. Not if I keep quiet, he believes in the authority I should exercise.” He had a mocking grin on his face, still full of rage. She realized it wasn’t against her, for once. “Maybe your mother will say something or one of our aunts. Not the men, though. They will follow Arcturus.” 

She felt her heartbeat quickening. 

“Do as you want, Walburga. I could hardly care less.” And she knew that while he had no lost love for her, Orion didn’t care because he wanted nothing to do with the inside mechanism of the House Black. 

That night, after six years of marriage, his insistence on touching her wasn’t degrading. His eyes locked on hers, his hot breath fanning her cheek, or his daring lips touching hers, it all built and built. His hand grazed her neck when she came undone, the black of his features the same of hers, so Walburga held his gaze, breathless. 

After that, things changed. No, she changed things. The women of the family sent her scathing looks, but she did not care. From Alphard’s crude jokes or Cygnus pitiful attempts at diplomacy, she heard it all. Regulus, Arcturus’ younger brother, ignored her. Again, it didn’t matter. The lord of the family acted as her husband said he would, and she talked with them, laughed with them, although she never took part in the drinking or smoking. 

She still had a child to bear, and it wouldn’t be fitting to indulge in mundane pleasures. 

The years, this time, were bittersweet. While her younger brother’s wife had another daughter, Walburga made herself one of the closest to Arcturus. She had learned that few were the things she could create under his tutelage. But she could influence, and so she did. The pressure of an expected but never present pregnancy made them wary, though. 

If she had no child, Cygnus’ would have to make it, yet, they were only girls, Bella and Andromeda. Alphard made it clear he would take no wife, and their options were shrinking. Lord Arcturus started to suggest potions, rituals, and dark books for her to take a look. He wanted her to have a little boy and an invisible clock started ticking.

Walburga gave the books to Alphard and he promised secrecy. Not so risky, but still precise, she asked. It took him some months and he made his breakthrough in his favourite field of research: potions. 

“The side effects?” She asked, and Alphard laughed. 

“The classic. If you don’t die immediately, they don’t write about it in the footnotes of the old tomes.” He had two flasks. Inside, the milky grey potion looked as unappealing as it could. “It’s nothing overly dark or permanent, sister. Your magic may become a little unbalanced for some time, but that’s exactly what you want to achieve.”

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow “It is, now?”

“Your magic will be strongly bonded to your will. Whatever is causing you trouble to conceive, we will count on your magic to solve, at least temporarily.”

He was wrong, that is, there were side effects. Walburga and Orion followed the instructions, the potion mixed with a drop of blood each. Dark and foul-smelling, they downed without a thought. He had a roguish smile directed at her, and she wondered if it was the first time that he took part in not so legal procedures. She would have to ask about his younger years, later. 

Orion wanted children. Maybe for different reasons than she did, but he wanted them. More, Walburga learned he wanted her. Not the title, not the second cousin, but her, with her fury and disdain. Cleaning the last drop of the potion from the corner of his lips, he looked at her with such tender care. 

They were partners.

She walked forward and kissed him. He touched her slowly, undressed her with those calm fingers of his, and watched her for a few seconds before entering her. Careful, he touched her along the way, breaking her discomfort with the thrill of pleasure. After they were done, she had her legs closed, his spill secured inside her. Orion held her, then, even if they were finished.

Walburga fell under a strong fever and for three days, she saw the world through the lens of delirium. Her mother calling them weak, Arcturus giving her a potion, Orion with his tamed hair wild, so similar to hers they could be siblings. More she saw, but her overworked brain could barely process as it was. 

A few weeks later, she talked with her sister in law, Druella. She had a new baby bump, and Walburga wondered if it was another girl. Across a room, she saw Alphard bothering their niece. Bella was not talented, she knew. She wasn’t simply a prodigy; she was the one in a generation witch.

Catching a sideways glance from Orion, Walburga wondered if it would be too different the union of first cousins from her marriage. Holding a discrete hand to her belly, she smiled. Sirius was the brightest star in the night sky, after all.

…

Hermione was not religious. Fate, gods and deities were nothing for her. Yet, she fancied herself special for them – in a hypothetical, ludicrous world – and by inane reasons, she would be a laughingstock, too. 

Her promised tutor was a beautiful woman. Pale with fair hair, she was hauntingly familiar. Then, Druella introduced her. Mrs Brown. Dahlia Brown, for those who cared.

Hermione believed in no destiny but having Lavender Brown’s predecessor as a teacher was forcing her to rethink it. Even in a small society as the pureblood one, she had big luck. Reborn as Bellatrix and now having that woman as a tutor, she allowed herself the right to be petty. Her roommate was not born or dead, so there was no respect to be paid.

Mrs Brown’s voice had a singsong tone on it, and if Hermione tried hard enough, she could hear the _Won-won_ on the echo of her cadence. However, she was being unfair. Lavender carried herself with a dramatic flair, theatrics mixed with the innocence of a schoolgirl. Annoying, yes, but her ancestor was all grace and reapproaching eyes.

Bothersome in her polite insistence, their first meeting defined the dynamics. She asked if Bella knew how to read (knowing she did, of course), and she nodded as an answer. One arched eyebrow and she wanted to know when she had learned and who had taught her. Hermione shrugged and Mrs Brown gave her a passionate speech about the importance of rhetoric and how vulgar it was the raise of shoulders. 

Using her age as an excuse, four years old at the time, Hermione yawned.

Mrs Brown talked her about manners – how to sit, how to talk, how to breath – and played hide and seek, urging the woman away with her magic. Some learnings she didn’t ignore, though. Etiquette would be useful later on, and she enjoyed learning about other pureblood families. 

“To be part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight is a matter not only of blood but political position and influence. The Potter family, for example, are ancient and pure. Lord Henry, however, talked too much about Muggles. Even with no traceable connection to any muggle or muggle-born, the author realized the surname was popular between those, and so he excluded the family.”

“And the Weasleys?”

“Despite blood-traitors as a consequence of their stances, they don’t marry muggle-borns. Their addition is almost a provocation, as their Lord, Septimus Weasley rebelled against the traditions, but still married a pure-blood and well breed lady.”

Hermione knew he had married Cedrella Black, and that she was disowned after they refused the title the book gave them. A waste of time, if she knew one. They burned too many bridges and Arthur Weasley would suffer to feed his children for a declaration that changed nothing. The Abbotts were favourable to muggle rights but were still included. 

Words in such a political world could be shovels. 

Those glimpses of explanation were useful, but what Mrs Brown delved more was developing character and temperament – head high, lower the chin, hands together, your appearance is a guarantee of behaviour– and when Hermione answered basic questions over the wizarding culture she said: “I congratulate your perfect memory, Miss Black, now use your mind before answering, if you may.”

Hermione thought it was a waste of time. She was older than the woman and survived much more (although the _survived_ part could be discussed). However, she was forced to remind herself or her plans involving the purebloods and why she had to learn their ways. She was Bella, the oldest sister and older _child_ of the family. 

Her sisters were a great incentive, though.

Andromeda was jealous of Narcissa, and the youngest child was the cause of tension between their parents. Bella could feel Cygnus magic hovering the nursery, but he mostly ignored the daughter he had expected to be a son. Druella showered her with enough affection to dim the father’s lack of interest, even if her eyes were sad. 

Hermione was Bella when doting Dromeda. The little girl was almost three years old and babbled a lot, her name frequently called by her. A small shadow, she liked to rip the paper of the children’s books while Hermione read and sometimes would stare at the pages and repeat what had been read to her before. She loved letters, too. The ABC and numbers and songs (muggle lullabies, although none besides the singer realized that), she would sing to herself or ask it from her sister. 

Druella smiled when she spoke more articulated words she picked up from the grown-ups after only one time listening, and once burst out laughing after Dromeda spluttered “Outrageous!” when Mrs Brown arrived – they thought she heard the woman scolding Bella with the said adjective. 

Druella’s laugh was less common, and therefore more precious than ever. Hermione had had a mother and didn’t need another, but she also knew she was no child of Druella, and the experience of mothering her first daughter was stolen by her presence. A reluctant affection was built with Druella’s effort to take care of Narcissa or to smile at sweet Dromeda. Sometimes, she still tried to sit on the couch while Hermione spread books over books on the coffee table. She would never give up of her eldest, and a small and petty part of Hermione was glad.

That’s not to say that her relationship with her sisters was perfect. Maybe a consequence of her behaviour, Andromeda was bossy. If she threatened to scream or cry, Hermione would produce the illusion of butterflies or some other distraction. However, she usually just complied with the girl’s wanting. 

She still remembered of Andromeda Tonks. Alone, so alone she had been at the end. Widow, without her daughter, without a family, just Teddy. Yet, Hermione saw none of that on the pouting child. The Andromeda she met wasn’t the one she was helping to raise, and they would never be the same. For her and her only, she became Bellatrix Black.

Narcissa was loved, of course. But it was Andromeda that turned her into a, somewhat happy, pureblood child.

They all loved the Rosier Estate. The grandparents had retired back to France after Fernand’s marriage. His wife, young and pretty with honey-coloured hair, accepted his nieces as close family. Kind and loyal to her uncle, she was calm where he was intensity.

Hermione thought her submissive at first glance, but when Fernand learned what Alphard had done with her, Louise held him back. Livid, he paced around the library, his magic lashing waves, and eyes burning. She touched his shoulder, then, and asked what he would do. He just shook his head, to what she replied with a pointing glance at Hermione, who sat on the sofa. “What are you going to do to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

In another afternoon, she asked what Aunt Louise meant. She chuckled and said “Your uncle is too smart for his own good. However, this ability to see between the lines can blind him to the simplest message worded.”

At Hermione’s confused face, Louise continued “Fernand first thought, probably, hovered the cause of the distress; the family that allows Alphard to breach your privacy. Then, about how powerless you are and how utterly impotent he is at the moment. Last, how to change it. But, Bella, the most important thing here is protecting your little head, not revolutionize an ancient House.”

And after that, Fernand took her tutoring lessons into his own hands. Between the sparse times they could meet, he taught her meditation as a long-term solution. Most purebloods would learn to reign their thoughts with age and methodical organization, and most importantly, occlumency. She would too, he explained, but until that day arrived, he would teach her a little trick for her defence.

“You need a very strong memory, Bella. One of those you can almost hear, smell and feel. It needs to be carried, though. Heavy with emotions, you’re going to relive it and connect its passion on itself.

There are many thoughts and memories inside the mind and those who want to see something specific use the emotions as guides. If you’re thinking about something embarrassing, they can navigate to other recollections streaked by shame. However, any impression of the past is marked by several feelings and so, shields are conventional – and safest – defence. 

Shields are the result of going through your thoughts and remembrances, knowing and separating them until you can control your head. Natural legilimens won’t be able to easily read superficial thoughts of those whose minds are calm and organised. A direct attack is harder to be repelled, although a strong training in occlumency can still be great protection.

Right now, you waste too much of your magic, intentionally or not, projecting your will over the others. For those without mental defence, it is compelling. In the same time, it makes you vulnerable to those who are trained in occlumency and can realise the opening in your mind.

As I am sure dearest Mrs Brown taught you, our magic is very connected to our moods and stances. Some wizards and witches are closer to their magic than others and you are exceptionally synchronized with yours. Therefore, your magic is aggressive and inquisitive.

Too focused on the outside, it forgets to protect you as naturally as it grows over the others. You need better self-control, Bella. However, you’re still very young and the years stretch in front of you. There is no need to stare me with those huge eyes of yours, darling. 

For now, I will teach you how to create a loop. A strong memory with all kind of emotions connected within it, and we’re going to create sentimental paths from this recollection back to itself." 

She blinked and he laughed “A trap, Bella, a trap. Any emotion the legilimens pursues from that fragment will lead them back to the start.”

Hermione used as the chosen memory the first time she saw Dromeda. The fear, rage, happiness and hopeless love were personal, maybe too personal, but she would rather sacrifice her most precious recollection of this time than risk her family and herself if someone invaded her mind and reached her knowledge about her past life.

Fernand would sit with her and hold Hermione’s small hand before saying _legilimens_ and delving into a dark room with the newborn and overbearing feelings. He would catch wind of her melancholy and guide her – without peeking on anything else – through the emotion and the connection to the memory until the way around it was instinctual.

Fernand asked her to look into his eyes, once, and she was able to feel the connection between their minds. He took her inside and showed her his own little loop with the memory of himself observing the passing students in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Quickly enough, she understood how the trick worked and could replicate it herself.

When they visited the estate later that year, they met their cousin, Evan. Evan Rosier was a death eater in the first war, Hermione knew it. She was pretty sure he died, too, after blasting part of Moody’s nose in a duel. Well, Fernand’s son was very much alive, with his fair hair and blue eyes. He blinked a lot and moved his hands in tiny fists. Narcissa, beside him, was as similar as a sibling. If not the few months separating them, they could be mistaken as twins.

She would spend more time with her cousin, but her sister demanded all of her attention, and they would run through the halls and laugh at the French-speaking portraits. Druella and Louise talked about maternity and their Hogwarts years while nursing the young babies, while Fernand watched over Bella and Andromeda.

They were inseparable. Her life, her balance, it all was the little chestnut-haired girl who controlled. She was Bella, with no past and no future, holding her little sister tight under the covers. Before the sun shined through the drapes, they would sneak back to the nursery where Druella had closed eyes and a betraying smile on her face. Once, Cygnus saw Dromeda running to Bella’s room and took her back to her bed.

He watched silently, though, as her daughter rouse again and returned to the eldest’s room. Maybe it reminded him of having an older brother or the childish act of walking on the tip of their toes amused him, but he turned a blind eye to their arrangement as long as they acted with discretion. 

Sweaty face and red cheeks, it was with Andromeda that Hermione noticed the consequence of her mediation. At her nap time, she would close her eyes and _feel_ her magic instead of letting it probe around for her. The tendrils and heavy tone, it was so familiar, so close to hers, that she was sure there was a light tide in her sea of Black magic. She had her magic with her, a bit of Lestrange’s and all that Bellatrix Black would develop. 

It was overbearing, but she forced herself into feeling it until it stopped making her scared. Too much it was, however, it was hers and she would not feel dread when analysing what was not only under her control, as the magic – dark or light – was Hermione.

Her acknowledgement of her capacities and conscious perception of it made her more stable. Accidental magic became rarer and her wandless, wordless incantations were sharper. Too synced with her magic, her intent was enough for simple things, and she wasted no thought in calling for objects or enchanting toys for her sister’s amusement.

The mark of her newfound control was Andromeda. Looking into her brown eyes, she held herself from inducing ideas, games or thoughts, and instead, she was received by the warm presence of her sister’s mind, who was a bit hungry but otherwise excited, and words. Her name, Bella, and an image of her enchanted ABC, _where is my teddy bear_ , and _I wanna run on the lawn_. 

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed slowly. Holding back a flinch, she tried to lose the tense muscles of her shoulder before looking at Andromeda again. Keeping her magic still, she still could catch glimpses of her sister’s thoughts. With active concentration, she was able to read nothing.

Was that what Fernand meant, a natural legilimens? She tried blinking her dark eyelashes at her mother and father but wasn’t able to get more than their mood. She glowed with resolve – and sadness, always a bit melancholic – and he was anxious. 

Occlumency, she knew, would stop her from prying at unsuspecting minds. Most purebloods were trained, but it was a hard subject to prevail on. She doubted the majority was good, and maybe a slight push from her magic – or just an expansive mood, as she was still building her control – and she would be able to read their thoughts. But children, school children, she was sure would be no obstacle. 

Hadn’t Voldemort used it to manipulate his classmates and teachers in Hogwarts? She wouldn’t do the same, but it could be a useful skill.

But the past or the future would only haunt her during the nights. She spent the day laughing and playing with Andromeda, reading at the library or visiting her uncle. She was Bella, the pureblood prodigy. She was carefree. 

But not even Andromeda’s hot skin against hers could chase away the memory of her children, two of them. Or of Harry’s closed eyelids on his too-young face, leaving his family and friends behind. Ron freckled back or Malfoy’s distant screams. 

_Hot air pressing her body down, the ghost of a hand around her ankle, trembling in the thick darkness. Holding the wall as a guide, the fear of never coming back calling forth the shivers. She could smell dust, ammonia and something ancient. Power pilled under the blanket of time. Dread threatened to freeze her, but she refused to stop._

And while Bella slept, Hermione was who would awake, shaking, with cold hands and sweaty body. A scream stuck in her throat. 

Nightmares, no, they were memories. 

Memories she needed. Fishing for connections and explanations, she hated the strength of those flashbacks but lived for the explanation she searched.

Hermione wanted to understand, but she was afraid of how much could she handle in such a small body and a still-developing brain – with no one to help. Lack of sleep made her eyes deep and bruised. Anxiety stole her appetite.

Yet, she refused to stop.

Walburga took notice of her bony arms. She visited from time to time, and a few months after Narcissa birth, she came by heavy with child, and Hemione knew Sirius was on his way. Even if young, even if different, he was Sirius. And Sirius was still home, still a piece of her past close to her. 

Her aunt was pleased by her excitement. It was known how protective she was of her sisters, and Walburga had laughed and said, “Sirius won’t be your brother, Bella, but you could still be close if you wish so.”

Mother was taking care of a fussy Narcissa and Andromeda was napping. Hermione felt it was a chance to gauge her aunt’s intentions. She knew marriage in the family was considered acceptable, but she felt secured by the fact she was Sirius’ first cousin. 

“Don’t you want to feel him?” Walburga guided her hand to touch the dress covering her belly “He’s a very active boy.” Bella closed her eyes and followed the movement under her hand. She felt a giggle escaping her lips when he landed a kick on her palm. Careful, she tried to get a feel on them. Walburga’s magic was taut, ready to strike. But Sirius’, well, she had her eyelids closed so her emotion wouldn’t be witnessed, but it was like _home_. Like the old 12 Grimmauld Place, full of cobwebs and Molly’s cooking, and the twins’ laugher, and Sirius challenging his own shadow, and Ron, and Harry. And _her_ , Hermione, thin with wild hair and know it all attitude. 

She was dragged back from her memories by a cold hand circling her wrist. Walburga frowned, tilting her head to watch her niece with quizzical eyes. She stated, then, “Are you sick, Bella? Merlin’s knows your mother has a handful of children to take care, but I am certain you used to be chubbier.”

“Mother says I’m growing fast.” Her aunt nodded, but when Hermione looked in her eyes again, she saw herself and saw the memory of a girl with a gaunt face and too serious expression. She saw Bella and saw the young Walburga, and tasted the comparison, the worry and the underlined hope.

“Why are you sad, aunt Walburga?” She said.

“I just wish there was more for us to take, Bella, but you are too young to worry yourself with bothersome thoughts,” she blinked and Hermione felt the connection falter, “however, I will talk with my sister about what she is feeding you.”

Walburga did talk with Druella, as her portions were increased and eating habits observed. Hermione forced down the food and played and laughed, and still felt like she was drowning. 

When baby Sirius was brought for his first visit, something inside her died. His magic, so wild, so familiar and so, so lovely, was there. And so was a baby with hair as dark as hers and black lazy eyes. His colouring complete opposed to Narcissa’s, and while she was easy to cry, he was demanding and clingy and he screamed. 

He was a newborn. He wasn’t Sirius Black, with his insidious temper and battered past. He would study in the same year as Narcissa and Evan, grow to make his path in different circumstances, much like Andromeda.

The world would change, with less blasted names in a tapestry, without a marriage to a family linked to Voldemort, without a dark mark on Bellatrix’s forearm, without the Black family descending into madness and extinction. No, Hermione would never allow any of it to happen. She would make sure her past, who she was, was exclusive to her. Alone, she would be. Daughter of a possibility that would never grow to be.

How real was Hermione, when all her memories and experiences and tears were dust, alive only in her head?

…

Leaving her younger children at the Rosier Estate, Druella braided Bellatrix’s hair in an elegant crown with golden ribbons. Dressed in a gown of black and red, her daughter was the perfect pureblood little lady. 

It was her sixth birthday and her presentation to the House of Black. Calm eyes and placid expression - almost too composed - she was ready. Druella had her heart tight but was too used to the pureblood etiquette to show it. Cygnus held their hands and they walked into the fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to make the next chapter shorter, but no promises. Any thoughts?


	5. Bella's presentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bella meets the family coven and Druella has to deal with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you'll enjoy the chapter!

The room had red drapes, with dark wooden floor and cream-coloured sofas. Spacious, there were small two-chaired tables on the corners and a long table close to the fireplace. Empty, it was, while the rest of the drawing-room was boiling with life. 

For an instant, Hermione’s breath was stolen. The Black family of the former timeline was destroyed, with nothing but ashes and gold for some other House to claim. 

In front of her, however, were the Blacks, with all their glory in long dresses, shiny rings and beautiful faces. Walburga received her with a charming smile and a bony hand steering her away from Cygnus and Druella. She wore a long dark blue dress, tight around her belly heavy with child. Regulus II would be born soon. They were in a different Estate; one she had never been. Arcturus’ residence, she supposed. It was more austere than Grimmauld Place, no dark knickknack filling the shelves or enchanted objects flaunted on every available surface. 

She was then reminded that the Blacks considered themselves some sort of royalty in the wizarding world, and they still lived well. No heir in Azkaban or muddled future. She could feel magic covering every inch of her skin, buzzing against hers and stirring it to life. The first couple she was introduced was the eldest of the room. 

“This is Bellatrix Black, eldest daughter of Cygnus and Druella.” Walburga gave her shoulder a firm squeeze and Hermione bowed her head. No bending knees, she decided. Mrs Brown had explained to her the old-fashioned rules and the flexibility of etiquette. She would show respect but not subordination. _As Bellatrix chose to do when facing the family._

“Arcturus Black, the second, and my wife, Lysandra Black née Yaxley.” He had his grey hair in a low ponytail and shaved cheeks. Dark eyes looking down at her, and she felt a slight prod in the back of her head. Arcturus’ uncle.

_She felt herself blinking owlish eyes at him and asking him why he made her head feel funny. He smiled and Walburga’s hand bruised her skin._

If she squinted her eyes, she could see Bella at the distance – worst, she could _be_ Bella - a too intense teenager, drinking with Cassiopeia – the old woman she _knew_ was Cassiopeia - or a child eager to please with uncontrollable magic.

_Laugh, her own laugh, rough and hysteric echoed around the room._

She forced herself to breath in deep. 

Hermione felt Bellatrix and her steps as dust on the shiny floor. Small discolouration on the edges, the world turned around itself and she felt her magic coil under her skin, her tense muscles ready to unveil in a movement whispered by time itself. 

She knew it like she knew how to breathe, instinctively, she knew it was herself, her magic, her many names, and knew to ignore the looming visions and let her feet walk by themselves.

Or not.

The whispers, the shivers, it was nothing. She wouldn’t be distracted. Hermione frowned, reigning herself and said, “You’re not that old.” Her voice was high-pitched but not that loud. Yet she felt like the conversations died around them. 

Arcturus – the second – gaped at her and his wife laughed, “Oh, and haven’t I told you that enough times, dear?”

Next was Arcturus. She was meeting them older to younger. Walburga repeated her name and parentage. “Arcturus Black, the third, and head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” He had black hair, black eyes, the pureblood features and sharpness unlike any other she had ever seen. However, when he smiled it brightened with kindness. A hand with a single ring took hold of her arm and brought Bella closer.

His dark eyes showed nothing while he analyzed her. She could feel he was powerful, yet he projected no emotion or desire or a presence. For the first time in her new lifetime, she was able to look into someone’s eyes and see only her own reflection. He said, mouth curved upwards, “Tell me, child, am I not that old either?”

She took in the small wrinkles on his otherwise smooth face and the pitch-black hair before saying, “No, my lord,” Bella frowned again, Hermione screaming inside herself as words were pulled out from her mouth as quick as she was able to think them, “you’re too young.”

Arcturus laughed and she could see something of Sirius on the way he turned his head to his son and raised his eyebrows. Hermione, Bella, Bellatrix, they all knew what was coming and knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to make herself noticed by him, make him _see_ her as what she was. An animalistic part of her wanted his approval and affection and trust, and she _wanted_ it with all her might.

“Care to explain what I’m too young for?” And the intensity of his attention threw her back to young Bellatrix, who dressed so similar to her, whose mind rushed and whispered, whose magic poked and provoked until the Lord of the family overwhelmed her with his power and made her rudeness known to Cygnus. 

_Bellatrix cried into her pillow, magic overflowing her, bolts of energy on her spine and the sun burning under her skin. She hated them, all of them. And her magic would tick her awake while flowers would bloom on her ceiling._

The memory made Hermione cold. The Black covenant was playing with her magic and memory as it did before. With Bellatrix Lestrange, she reminded herself, not her. Not Bella. Not Hermione.

She still had to answer, though. And she did it with voices interlining with her own – and which was hers?

“For the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black none of you are old enough.” The room fell silent and shivers run her body. Bellatrix tilted her head and took the picture of them to herself, their older reflections and cursed fates making her eyes haughty. 

She could see her own smile, the sudden movement in deep waters, a ripple on an otherwise angelical face. She shut herself before she could say more, dig her own grave with words too mature for her age.

But she knew by their expressions her off-handed comments were right. The Blacks were rich and powerful, yet the faces around her were young and the dates on the family tapestry were telling. Most should and would die young.

Hermione watched as Arcturus laughed, “Aren’t you very attentive for your age? But worry not, Bella, is our coven that is as ancient as one can be without taking its wizards and witches free will away.” 

He touched her forehead and for an instant, his eyes were as tender as Druella’s when she touched baby Narcissa. Something inside her - a part that gnawed for this man affection - made her limbs heavy with lazy satisfaction. Yet, she knew it was dismissive.

The rest of the Black were remarkable in their own way, although none like Arcturus. His siblings, both younger, were Lycoris and Regulus. Lycoris, the middle child, was a middle-aged woman who showed no expression of interest in their youngest coven member. Beside her, the younger brother sat (Regulus the first). He had yellowed skin and a gaunt face, a withered man that showed age like a muggle would, and with his haunting eyes, he chased her around the room. 

His presence, his magic, it was wrong. Despite slightly disturbed by him, she still noticed Alphard hovering them and enticing his elder into a conversation. He glanced at her, almost checking how she was before engaging the older man in a conversation.

After Arcturus’ younger siblings, it was time for her to meet her grandparents. Pollux was a handsome man, with braided black hair and an arched brow. In his eyes, she could see only boredom. His wife, Irma, had a thin, solemn face. She spoke and Bella could almost hear the locking and unlocking of her jaw on her stiff smile, “This is the first step you will take, little one, as a Black. Did your momma tell you what is going to happen to you?” 

Walburga laughed, then, her voice rough and hand almost protective pulling Bella against her skirts, “No one told her nothing, Mother, as it should be. Let’s not spoil the surprise.” 

The last one was Cassiopeia. Walburga, Alphard and Cygnus’ aunt. As they walked across the room to get to her, Walburga talked in a low voice, “She's the oldest daughter. First my father, then her and last Dorea, who married a _Potter._ ”

The woman was beautiful. With her black hair cut short right above her jawline, eyes darkened by makeup and a smirk in place, she curtsied back at Bella and said, “They say you’re very _magical_ , little girl, otherwise no pretty bow or pretty dress would save you today.” 

“Auntie, please.” Walburga rasped. 

“You know Pollux’s words, my dear, a child is a flimsy thing.”

“Cassiopeia.” Arcturus voice warned nothing, although his lack of intonation made all of them careful.

“Yes, m’lord, I will serve her the cards,” she then winked at Bella, “a card can save you or damn you too, so careful now.”

Arcturus watched impassively while she walked to the empty table. Silence fell and the family watched as Cassiopeia held her eyes closed in what looked as if she prayed. She pulled a deck of cards and started mixing them until she arranged it on top of the table. The head of the house guided Bella gently, although no words were said, and she sat in front of the older woman. 

Arcturus touched the deck of cards and she could taste the magic on the back of her throat, heavy on her shoulders and as a tingle of her fingers. “Mix it now, Bellatrix Black”, said Cassiopeia, her lips moving slowly and eyelids almost shut.

Bella obeyed. Almost instinctively, she closed her eyes and spread the cards between them, feeling shrills running under her skin and pleasure ripple inside her body. She rearranged them and positioned it in front of her great aunt.

(And wasn’t it funny how the young pretty woman in front of her - she supposed she was in her forties even if she looked not older than thirty - could be her great aunt, sister of her grandfather. So young, they were all so young playing around with the noble and most ancient House of Black.

Blind all of them were, the coven forcing itself, trying to show the way;

But she, Bellatrix, Lestrange, Black and Granger, would be different;

The magic sang her to life.)

When she opened her eyes - the same she hadn’t choose to close - her aunt started to take cards from the pile and they were alone, the members of the coven holding their distance. Divination and tarot, yet not a part of her felt revulsion.

Old and fragile, the card had lost part of the colour they once had, but the dark lines of the drawings were still clear. A sword, a wheel and a moon. Cassiopeia’s red lips hooked up and the fire allowed Bella to see her blown-out pupils and the thin black circle made brown by the light. 

“Ace of swords, the wheel of fortune and the moon,” she laughed, “aren't you a lucky one? The crow over the sword symbolizes the royalty of your blood and position, while the mountains and sea behind shows the ambition of a conqueror,” a long nail pointed to the clouds surrounding the sword, “It represents a breakthrough, the power to conquer or to destroy.

Coupled with the wheel of fortune, it could mean you’re on the verge of stepping away from a vicious cycle; while the moon could create illusions with its shadows in the night or illuminate your path. 

It could be one, it could be both. For better or for worst, Bellatrix Black, you have the power to make changes.”

Cassiopeia turned to the other card, “you’re stuck in a cycle, bound to triumph and bound to defeat, happiness and suffering, same accomplishments tempered by the same mistakes. The moon here makes you confused, losing track of the predators stalking in the dark while you try to see the silhouettes of familiarity. 

You should embrace the darkness, the lack of knowledge over the will to follow your steps, or you’ll be facing always the same problems, stuck in the wheel of fortune.”

Although her nail tapped the last card, her eyes were glued on Bella’s, “The last one is the moon. Alone, it has a special meaning in this family. You’re touched by intuition and haunted by illusions. The capacity of creating your monsters or predicting them is rare. You should not waste it.

Together, Bellatrix, your cards show the power to create change or to keep the wheel turning, to see more than the world shows or to lose yourself in your mind.”

With that, Cassiopeia stood up and said the name of the cards in a high and clear tone, while the member of the family got closer to the table, whispering between themselves.

Arcturus spent a few seconds looking down at the cards before Cassiopeia shuffled them again before putting it away. He turned to Bella and smile, pride evident in his bright eyes, “Now, we’re going to present you to the Coven. Don’t fear, Bella, it’s only for an instant.”

Cassiopeia said, “That is if you’re not a squib.”

Her father, Cygnus, answered for her with satisfaction, “Bella’s magic has been acting up since she was born.”

She followed the older men and women away from the table and they formed a small circle. Arcturus took a step to the centre and nodded for the girl to do the same. He had a reassuring smile on his face when he said, “I call forth the House of Black Covenant.” 

.

.

.

Hermione felt her head pounding and her vision darkened for an instant. Her whole body trembled and bees nested under her skin, her flesh fire and eyes burning. The weight on her shoulder and pressure on her neck made her gasp and where her teeth touched her lips blood rose.

She could hear whispers and voices and screams and silence, so silent that her rasping breath echoed in the room. Bellatrix laughed and laughed, shoulders shaking, while Hermione tried to catalogue what was real and what _couldn’t_ be real. Bella fought against the urge to kneel, to scream, to tear her face off. 

Yet, she kept standing.

She could feel them, their presence pricking her muscles, warnings signs like lightning in her brain. Cassiopeia, so, so hurt and so, so scared. Her father and his helplessness. Alphard and Walburga's despair bitter on her tongue, Pollux's numbness and Lycoris' rage.

Her bones were cold and she was sick, extremely sick and all it screamed was an urgency and she _knew_ it was Regulus, that lost, lost man. And then the elder Arcturus, so full of amusement, so full of dread.

And she felt the thread that united them all, that brought her to them. She felt the covenant, she felt it convulse around their desires and dreams, collapse some and build others, driving some to obsession and others to greatness.

It touched her and guided her with a warm hand towards Arcturus and she was overwhelmed by hope. Hysteria bathed her when she opened her eyes and found his. Her heart beating against her ribcages and singing her to action, the air cracking with her magic, with _their_ magic, and she smiled. 

One by one, the members of the family took a step back, and their presence although still present in the back of her mind, was not domineering. First was Cassiopeia and then Pollux, Arcturus II, Alphard, Walburga, Lycoris (shaking, imploring, begging for mercy - _what mercy, what salvation_ Hermione chanted somewhere) and last Regulus.

She could only see his black eyes and feel his presence, his power. The power of the covenant of the House of Black, backing him up, tearing her sanity to shreds. 

And he looked at her and hoped. 

She couldn’t look away and while the pain inside her head built up and spread to her eyes, mouth, neck and lungs, so did euphoria. 

In his black eyes, she saw Bellatrix fighting to be heard, to be recognized, to stay _sane_. She felt the cruelty, the pleasure and the blinding love. She saw the little girl hiding from a troll inside a bathroom and the never-ending war to prove herself. 

And she saw herself, looking at him, tears streaking her cheeks and throat raw from screaming, trying to grasp at something, anything. Anything or anybody that would make it real and _please, tell me this a dream_.

She stared at his dark eyes and there were no reflections but the image of the green iris and messy hair and a scar and _please, let me see him again, please, only one last time._

Just when he opened his mouth to talk, his hand rose to touch her, the bright and warm feeling turned cold, and worry washed her in its cold waters. The connection was ripped from her and dead went back to their graves.

She blinked to an incredulous Arcturus, a frown marring his features and his hot and large hand grasping her jaw, turning her face to him. He glimpsed down at her eyes, thumb caressing her cheeks, and when she felt something touch her magic, she knew it was no legilimency, but his own - _their_ covenant - checking on her. She reacted instinctively, trying to grasp it back, and his mouth hooked up in a tiny smile.

She felt his relief, his gratitude, his hope. The thin thread of a connection he kept with her.

…

The house was silent. Fernand and his wife were taking care of the kids and left her to keep her vigil. She had asked him to take a look at Bella, to try his hand - as he usually did and was so more successful than her - with her little girl’s magic. He refused. Coven magic, he explained, was not to be treated lightly. As she knew before asking.

When they finished presenting her to the coven and their sentient magic, the covenant, she had been in a catatonic state. Bellatrix followed them home, walked with her tiny legs on her own, but her eyes remained unfocused and she was non-verbal. She fell asleep and didn’t react even when no Andromeda tucked herself with her. 

Druella wasn’t sure when she closed her eyes, but she still had to open them. Two days and three nights. ( _She hated them and hated their traditions and hated herself, who was the one to fault over choosing Cygnus as her husband.)_

Part of her knew it was unfair to be so angry. Arcturus explained to her with his complacent smile that Bella just needed some rest. Walburga, for once, stood for her and said the ritual had been abnormal and maybe he should try something to make it better.

There, Druella Black née Rosier learned some secrets of the coven of the privative Blacks. She learned the children weren’t supposed to stay under the covenant power and influence for so long. The moment they fell or went out of position was the moment the connection was cut. However, Bellatrix stayed, even when all the other members of the family were overwhelmed.

She stayed, while Druella sat at distance together with the other wives. Lysandra, an elegant well-bred lady who didn’t comment on the tension of her shoulder and Irma, her mother in law who didn’t like her but chose to show grace and ignore Druella’s flinch when their ancient magic made itself present. 

Druella was no stranger to the power of an old pureblood covenant, but the Black’s were different. Not even marrying into the family made her a true Black and in that instance, even Lysandra who gave more than fifty years of her life to the family was also a foreign to their traditions - just like Druella and Irma.

Irma too sacrificed a lot. She stopped her education to marry Pollux, leaving her family and goals to embrace her new house, and once, Druella would think of it with admiration. While her mother in law may not have been allowed to be part of the coven, the family was marked by her presence as an old house haunted by vines. Spreading slowly, making its way through the next generation mind, until it was impossible to rip it away from the house foundation.

For some twisted reason, she reminded Druella of her daughter. Maybe the silent and contemplative glances, the cutting remarks. Although there was malice in Irma while Bella seemed way too indifferent to despise someone.

Ruthless, Irma was, and likewise grew to be her older daughter, Walburga.

Still, she was thankful for Walburga. She kept Bellatrix company even when Druella couldn’t. Be it to placate her mother or to avoid her aunt - there was bad blood between Cassiopeia and Arcturus, something about a squib, Cygnus avoided the topic though - she was there with her child.

Her ingenuity had to die when she gave birth for the first time, however. She knew Walburga had some interest hidden behind her actions. Of course, she had. Bellatrix was exceptional and while she doubted they would try to force a marriage between first cousins - and was grateful for the taboo - she knew her daughter still could be used to buy influence.

Yet, she had been helpless. The only orientation she got from Cygnus was to stay far away from Bella and follow the other married to family actions. It translated to watch her daughter being paraded around and then stay afar like the rest of them while Cassiopeia read her luck in some antiquate Divination ritual. 

The horizon, as it was to be expected in that family, promised no progress. 

She knew about her own daughter situation and fate by overheard whispers, and never had she felt so strongly her insignificance. She wasn’t born a Black and neither was Lysandra or Irma. Their children weren’t theirs, they were Blacks, the birth of the child the ultimate separation from the mother and end of any importance she once could carry. 

She wondered if Lycoris and Arcturus II lack of children was intentional. 

Nonetheless, the name of her daughter was whispered with excitement after her cards - a fated conqueror or a powerful seer or suffering lunatic, they weren’t sure after only glimpsing the cards at distance - but it changed after their presentation to the coven, the members, and the sentient magic behind it, the covenant. 

Her daughter had her eyes rolled back, and then when she looked at Arcturus, she smiled like no child should be able to. Outstanding the influence of their magic, the head of the family had to pull her out of the connection. 

For them it was a signal of greatness, the covenant touching a young one and not making them fall screaming, or breaking them, or making them pass out. They were proud. Regulus pulled Alphard to a hushed conversation and celebration permeated the air.

And fear. Great things, her daughter could be promised to do, but no one could know if she could take make of their royalty an empire or if she would burn it all to the ground. 

Yet, in the middle of the room, Bellatrix Black was a tiny child, all skinny limbs and inexpressive face. No sadness, no joy, even if her chubby cheeks, tiny nose and pink mouth showed innocence. Celebrated it was, but just an empty symbol, as empty as her dark eyes.

Staring at her daughter at distance, Druella thought about counting her losses and leaving while she could with whom she could take with her. She felt as if Bella was lost and next would be Andromeda and then Narcissa. 

She wouldn’t survive losing her daughters. Bella was never hers, not like Narcissa who _needed_ Druella. It ripped her apart to admit it, but she would probably never be.

She would talk to Fernand, he would help her with some ritual to make them harder to trace. She could take the children to France, live in some State there, they would study in Beauxbatons under different names, grow up free, free from the fate cards would dictate and free from a hostile family. They would never learn to accept it like her darling husband had to. Poor Cygnus would be devastated, but she had to think about her babies…

And she would never give up on Bella.

She couldn’t.

She would teach them about how the family can build you to be free and how a coven can be old and warm, like waking up from a long sleep or snuggling with a loved one. She would teach them, would teach Bella about the Rosier covenant, show her she had a choice.

She would stay and try even if her daughter learned to be cunning like Arcturus and ruthless like Walburga and cruel like Irma, it wouldn’t matter. Bella could never need her, but Druella needed all of her daughters and she wouldn’t give them up.

So when Bellatrix woke up screaming and thrashing, Druella only had her love to strengthen her and thus she had never been so determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update! I'm back, though!  
> Thank you for the love, kudos and comments!


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